


Redemption, It's What's For Dinner

by DanielVanDerLinde



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Arthur Morgan Deserves Happiness, Comfort/Angst, Drama, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Explicit Language, F/M, M/M, My First Fanfic, My First Work in This Fandom, Possible Character Death, Post-Video Game: Red Dead Redemption 2 (2018), Racial slurs, Red Dead Redemption 2 Spoilers, Sexual Assault, Sexual Harassment, Slow Burn, Spoilers, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-20
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2020-09-19 07:06:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 38,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20327101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DanielVanDerLinde/pseuds/DanielVanDerLinde
Summary: This tale begins at the end when Arthur Morgan was destined to succumb to his sickness while a speechless Dutch Van der Linde and a pleading Micah Bell go their separate ways.Be prepared for anything as we follow Arthur on his journey as he deals with the aftermath of everything, which includes his love/loyalty for Dutch, his friendship with Josiah Trelawny, where he stands with the surviving gang members, and the goddamn Tuberculosis.





	1. Encore

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first ever attempt at writing as a fan. Like many of you, the ending broke my heart and inspired this story. Most of the living van der Linde Gang characters will make appearances throughout, but the focus will be on Arthur and Dutch. I've sprinkled in a few made up characters to add some spice to the plot. Please let me know what you think and thank you for reading!

“It's over. It's all over.”

  
Arthur Morgan strained his eyes against the pitch darkness. Gunshots echoed in the distance. Agent Milton had made true to his past promise of bringing an army of fifty men to end the van der Linde gang. The Pinkertons were coming.

  
“I—I did my best, Arthur.”

  
Arthur laid upon the rock surface where he had collapsed. It was unforgiving in its iciness and hardness, which reminded him of death's imminent embrace.

  
_Tuberculosis. TB._

  
His body was numb, heavy, and battered from fleeing the camp through the cave, holding off the Pinkertons while John Marston escaped, and the altercation with Micah just moments ago.

  
_Rat._

  
“I had a plan!”

  
_Dutch!_

  
Arthur willed himself to scream his leader's name to no avail. He pushed down his palms with all his might in an effort to stand that he might be able to reach out, with every ounce of strength he had left. Growing frantic, he strained to hear the voice as it faded in to the darkness.

  
_Dutch!_

  
Arthur’s body betrayed him. His spine and head collided with the ground, knocking the air from his smoldering lungs.

  
_Dutch!_

  
More gunshots, crashing of feet, and hooves.

  
_Dutch!_

  
Silence ensued. The sky remained dark, starless. A cool breeze chilled Arthur’s bones. Everything in his physical world hurt. His destroyed lungs forced him to generate a grief stricken sigh that sent pain across his entire rib cage—his complete being.

  
_Broken. Ribs are broken. Micah. Rat._

  
The realization that he was alone set in. They were all gone and he would be soon, too.

  
_Lenny, Sean, and Hosea…_

  
His tear ducts burned, but the wetness never fell.

  
_Dutch!_

  
He could not even will himself to raise his hands. His fingers twitched with his efforts.

  
_So this is what dying feels like—dying alone feels like._

  
The anxiety crept in. He closed his eyes.

  
In those final moments, that felt like an eternity, Arthur thought of his son Isaac, Eliza, his poor mother, his abusive father, Jenny, wise Hosea, Lenny the kid, Sean, John, Jack, Abigail, Karen, Tilly, Mary Beth, Pearson, Uncle, Miss Grimshaw, Mary… He hoped that they all found peace in life and death and that he might, too. And that the physical world’s torment would cease.

  
_Maybe when your mother is finished mourning your father... I'll keep her in black, on your behalf._

  
Then, he heard the screams, pleading, and begging of those he had killed—murdered over the years and those left behind. Arthur had not killed unnecessarily as some in the group had. However, his guilt was no less than that of theirs. His body hurt with each shallow breath as he recounted his acts as a gunslinger. Each breath was more labored and more shallow than that of the last. He deserved this. All of this.

  
The building pressure in his chest was insurmountable. Another shallow breath racked his weakened body. The pain was immense.

_Hosea…_

  
His eyes continued to burn. He thought of when he was young. When Hosea and Dutch had taken him in, taught him, provided for him until he was—

  
“Dutch,” he finally breathed. It was barely audible to his own ears. The tears fell freely now. The saltiness burned the lacerations as they trickled down his cheeks. Arthur remained loyal to the end. Even then, Dutch left him—left him to die alone. He had chosen Micah.

_Rat._

  
_Be loyal to the things that matter._

  
His words that he had uttered to John burned in his mind. In the end, Arthur hoped he had righted enough wrongs, that he helped enough folks, and maybe that old nun was not completely wrong when she had told him he was a good man.

  
_I love you, son._

  
A sob caught in his throat as he thought of Dutch, again. Soon after, the darkness consumed him.

* * *

_Be loyal to the things that matter._

  
A bright white light appeared, invading the darkness that he had succumbed to.

  
_Faith. Keep the faith._

  
Then, pain came. So much ache—physical pain. Cold metal. The smell of blood.

  
Arthur’s eyes snapped open taking far too long to adjust to the light that blinded him from above. All the pain he had felt on the rock surface, in the dark returned. He thrashed his legs and arms to no avail. His eyes never completely focused. Black dots blurred his vision. The leather cut into his already damaged flesh. He howled in pain.

  
_This is hell._

  
His lungs burned.

  
_Bound in hell._

  
“Be still!” the voice commanded. “You’ll rip your stitches.”

  
Arthur let loose a wild growl as he became enraged. He continued trashing about gasping for breath. A coughing fit overtook him. He felt the blood trickle from the corners of his mouth.

  
_TB._

Next, Arthur watched in horror as the person approached his restrained legs with a syringe in hand. “A pinch,” the man said as he plunged the needle into Arthur’s thigh. His world began to spin and blur. Again, his chest felt heavy. His lungs screamed.

* * *

_Come on, buddy._

“Goddamn,” Arthur breathed as he clasped his hands over his face. He startled instantly.

  
“It's normal to feel a bit dizzy yet,” the same male voice from before said. “Should be fleeting, if anything. By evening it should be gone.” Arthur looked towards his bare feet, his eyes focusing slowly, to see the familiar doctor from Saint Denis seated in a chair at his feet. “Water on the table.” The doctor gestured to the glass on the nightstand next to Arthur.

  
“How—how…” Arthur rasped as he continued to hold his face with his hands. The lesions that had covered his face were gone. The light was too much. The lack of dark, pain, and the smell of blood was too much. It was all to much. His eyes burned and breath hitched in his chest and throat. His ribs did not hurt as they previously had. The end had been there for him. It was over. He was to meet Hosea and—

  
“You’re lucky, that some feller dropped you off at my doorstep,” the doctor sad flatly as he stood and gathered up his things, placing various vials and medical tools in his bag.

  
“How—” Arthur inhaled to gather strength. “How long have I been out, doc?”

  
“Nearly two moons.”

  
“Who?” He rasped.

  
The doctor shrugged. “Don’t know. The feller sure was in a hurry.”

  
“I don’t have any money, mister.” Arthur threw his arm over his face, thankful for the protection it provided from the light above.

  
“Not to worry,” the doctor exclaimed. Arthur quickly sat up. His head swimming. His bare chest was left exposed from the linens. “The man who left you paid the bill in full.” Arthur frowned. “You’re free to go now, of course. There’s some money for you there, left over from the gentleman who brought you, fresh clothes, and a few days supplies.”

  
“You seen ‘em?” Arthur asked.

  
The doctor shook his head. “I’m afraid not. There is some good news for you though. I was able to get a new medicine from the north. That will help prolong your time while living with TB. These pills, take them as it says on the side and your symptoms should remain minimal. However, it isn’t the cure all. I’d recommend you make your way up north to the sanatorium when you can. They’ve been doing tests. Anyways, you’re free to go, Mr. Morgan.” The doctor stood and turned to leave. “One last thing.” He fumbled in his bag, set down an envelope in the chair he had been seated in, and quickly departed.

_Alone. Again._

  
Arthur sat still gathering himself. He didn’t know what or how to feel or what to think. He head was spinning again. He closed his eyes to ease the nausea.

  
_I love you, son._

  
After several minutes of complete stillness, Arthur uncovered himself and stood. Once he had gulped some water down his scorched throat, he made his way across the quaint room to the mirror. His jaw slacked as he observed himself. His body was riddled with recently healed scars and slight bruising around his ribs. His build was still thin from the decline due to the TB. He cringed at the sight of his ribs, exposed, marred flesh, and pale in color. He rubbed his chin and cheeks where a average in length beard had grown. His unkempt hair was a little too long. His blue eyes, laced with red, stared back at him in disbelief. Shaking his head, he slowly donned the blue button up shirt, dark jeans, and worker boots. Once dressed, he sat down to observe the contents of the satchel left to him.

  
Inside, he found a newspaper cutout of the sanatorium information that the doctor had mentioned, several bottles of the pills for his TB, several canned goods and perishables, nearly $500, and a loaded cattleman’s revolver. His brain swam, but only numbness consumed him. He was unable to feel; unable to think. He stood then, on unsteady legs and walked to the chair the doctor had been seated in. He picked up the letter and stuffed it in his satchel with the thought to read it later that night.

  
Feeling utterly misplaced and painfully alive, Arthur stepped out onto the busy streets of Saint Denis. He winced at the afternoon sun. People bustled by in their city clothes. They paid him no attention as if he were just another afternoon street stroller. Arthur decided he would pick up a few things before settling into a hotel later that night on the far side of the city.

Arthur closed the hotel room door behind him. The room smelled of smoke and dust. It was furnished with a bed, desk, and basin. Arthur kicked off his boots before tossing the satchel and his newly purchased dark cowboy hat on the desk. He lit the oil lamp closest to the bed.

  
“This ain’t real.” He whispered to himself as he flopped down on his back onto the bed.

Being in Saint Denis brought memories flooding back. He thought of searching for young Jack after the damned Braithwaite woman had stolen him out from underneath their noses. Also, the party at the mayor's house where Dutch had insisted that Arthur get a clean cut, shave, suit, and Angelo Bronte.

  
_Italian bastard._

  
Feeling his blood pressure rising, Arthur removed the envelope that had been burning a hole in his pocket for the last few hours. He held it in both hands. He inhaled deeply and quickly pried the letter loose. His heart sank. Rage returned.

  
It read: _Father and son. Brothers._

  
Arthur dropped it as though he had been burned.

  
“Dutch,” he breathed.

The realization that his former mentor had come back for him, that he had risked capture and death. Tears threatened to fall. He picked up the note and held it in his hands once more and reread those four simple words.

  
The flood gates opened. Arthur felt all of the pain of loss as his mind wandered to Hosea and then to Dutch. He mourned them both. There was no doubt in his mind, in his heart that Dutch had pitied him, dropped him off on the doctor’s doorstep, and continued running from the gallows with Micah in tow. The betrayal was fresh. The emotional wounds ran deep. He cried himself to complete exhaustion that night.

* * *

Several weeks later, Arthur had found himself a job as a stable hand in a town in the north called Thornberry. He was paid nearly eighteen dollars a week. However, he was thankful to have something to keep his mind and hands busy amidst the mental anguish he still experienced on a regular basis.

  
The pills the doctor had gave him for the TB were incredible. Arthur seldom coughed. He felt well enough most of the time to eat. To his surprise, Arthur was gradually putting weight back on and gaining muscle that you could only get from farm work. He often lingered after his shift with the horses. It was the only thing that made him feel anything even remotely normal and at peace somewhat. He would find himself often talking to a young, elite Arabian black stallion, who he affectionately called Ransom.

  
No matter the time that passed, Arthur was unable to bring himself to read the papers about the perhaps remaining van der Linde gang members. He did not—could not know if Dutch or any of the others were even alive. He did not know how to feel either way. He was afraid. He thought of writing to the many alias’s the gang had used over the years, but he could never bring himself to do it. Surely no one cared about poor sick Arthur. He had become a burden.

  
After he watered the horses one last time and slipped a sugar cube to Ransom, Arthur replaced his hat and headed to the saloon. He made a habit of enjoying whiskey to numb his brain and then sleeping it off to only work the next day and repeat. It was a safe plan.

  
Often, the working girls in the saloon would try to gain his attention, which he politely dismissed each time. Once in a while, a drunkard or tough guy would try to provoke him. Instead of knocking them out, he would remove himself from the situation entirely. Arthur did not have _it _in him anymore.

* * *

Over the next few months, Arthur continued to drink and work. And work and drink. The older man that owned the stable praised him and gave him a raise to nineteen dollars a week. Arthur found himself putting most of his money into a lock box secured in his room at the saloon. He did not know what he would be saving for, but continued the habit nonetheless. It felt normal.

  
As time went on, his thoughts wandered less to the past, but even less to the future. His future. He knew he maybe had a month or so supply left of the TB pills he’d gotten from the doctor in Saint Denis. There had been occasions when he would take out the sanatorium article and consider going, but he could not convince himself he was worth it. He could not think of a reason good enough to try. Hell, he did not even have a horse of his own.

_We can't change what's done, we can only move on._

Things changed a bit when he met Anna Smith. She had just come back from graduating school in a neighboring town. The girl had blonde hair, blue eyes, curves, and peace about her. Also, she was the daughter of his employer and appeared to have plenty of boyfriends.

  
Arthur tried not to notice, but found that he could not help himself. He found himself lingering longer than normal outside of the stable and finding an excuse to fix anything, even if it did not need fixed just so he might catch a glimpse of her. A simple glance sated him.

  
"Cold glass of lemonade, mister?"

  
"Thanks, miss," he had responded, wiping the sweat from his brow. The afternoon sun was high in the sky.

  
"I'm Anna." She smiled brightly and held out her hand.

"Arthur,' he responded, shaking her hand. "Arthur Callahan."

  
Arthur found himself talking to her often about the horses and listening to her going on and on about her studies. She dreamed of becoming a veterinarian in one of the nearby towns. There was a peace about her that calmed him to his core.

  
Whenever Arthur was with Anna, the anguish of the past left him. They had held hands through a thunderstorm, waiting it out in the stables, and she had kissed him on the cheek.

  
It was a simple thing. A good thing. A short-lived thing.

* * *

One night when Arthur was headed to the saloon after work, he witnessed a woman struggling with a dark figure in the alley. His breath hitched in his throat. He hadn’t been involved in any type of violence since…

  
_Micah. Rat. Duuuutch!_

  
Arthur found his legs propelling him forward toward the alley and the two figures. He saw red. Before the assailant had his wits about him, Arthur grabbed the man's shoulder back, pulling him off of the shrieking woman, and punched him with all his strength in the jaw. Arthur released the man. His body made a sickening thud on the ground. Something in Arthur snapped. He fell on top of the unconscious man. Blow after blow, Arthur continued to strike him. He felt the spray of warm blood upon his face and neck with each strike, alternating his fists.

  
_Rat!_

  
“Stop,” the woman shirked. “You’ll kill him!” Arthur froze as the woman started screaming louder and louder. "He's my husband!" A crowd began to emerge from the saloon. Terror overtook him.

  
Immediately, Arthur pushed through the crowding folks and into the saloon. He sprinted up the flight of steps taking three at a time. He crashed through his door, grabbing his satchel, lock box, and pistol. Once he gathered his few belongings, he leapt out of the second story window, landing with his knees bent on a wagon below. He sprinted to the stable he had worked at the past few months, flying past the guard, grabbing the lantern that hung outside as he quickly saddled up Ransom, the black Arabian.

  
A loud whinny sounded as he crashed through the stable doors and bolted off into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that my writing cherry has been popped, how'd I do?


	2. Business and Pleasure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur continues his downhill spiral. Who will be there to pick up the pieces?

_I gave you all I had._

  
The night and his mind were as black as the whiskey he drank. As Arthur continued to down the dark liquid, he reasoned that he would either swing at the gallows as Arthur Callahan the horse thief, be hanged for 20 years of crimes committed while in the van der Linde gang as Arthur Morgan, or the Tuberculosis would consume him. The worst part of it was that he was certain that he would die alone by the latter of the three choices.

  
_Faith. Keep the faith._

  
It had been a hellish several weeks since the incident in Thornberry. Above all else, survival persevered. Arthur rode long and he rode hard through countless nights of wind a rain until he felt the paranoia ease in the slightest. It would have been easier to run if he had somewhere to run to.

  
_Someone to run to._

  
Opening his eyes and shaking his head, he took in his surroundings. Arthur sat in the darkest corner of the dimly lit tavern in a city called Bandits Landing with his hat angled low and his blue collar high. Ransom was secured to the hitching post outside. The dank establishment was empty excluding the nearly dozen remaining patrons, table of drunk poker players, and several working girls. The town, if you could even call it that, reminded him of the Van Horn Trading Post area with its undesirable community and lack of the law.

  
Arthur found himself wandering in thoughts of the past and drowning the feelings he stirred up there in more liquor. He had not thought of Thornberry. He had not thought of Anna Smith. Mindlessly, he ran his knife under his finger nails and then nothingness again.

* * *

“Good evening, Mr. Morgan.” His name floated through the air and caused him to stir. Once the realization of who had uttered his name hit his conscious brain, Arthur sat upright and winced. Immediately, he flopped down on his back and rested his arm over his eyes. The usual symptoms of another hangover hit him like a head on collision from a train. His jaw and chest hurt—a new hurt. The room was still dark as the curtains were drawn tight. A familiar silhouette was lounged next to the lumpy bed on which he lay.

  
“Goddamn,” Arthur sighed. “This ain’t real.”

  
“Oh, my dear boy, I can assure you that it very much is.” Arthur startled as he felt a cool damp cloth dab at his forehead. The man's familiar mix of British and Midwestern accents filled his ears. “Welcome back to the ever forgiving land of the living.”

  
“Don’t fuss over me now,” he protested while he kept his eyes covered and closed. He had not the energy to physically object. His hangover continued to hit him hard. The pain in his jaw and chest burned. “It’s not necessary, Mr. Trelawny.”

  
“On the contrary, Arthur, I find it completely necessary.” The magician continued to wipe Arthur’s face, and neck. “I hadn’t thought I’d ever see you again, dear boy.”

  
Arthur could not bring himself to speak as heartache bloomed in his chest and nausea spawned in his gut. The coolness to his fevered body that Josiah Trelawny provided, a simple gesture, he continued to welcome it.

  
“You had us all worried you know.” The coolness continued to travel down his neck and across his collarbone. “You were a good—no, were the greatest friend to me and I shan’t ever forget it.” He felt Josiah's fingers undoing the top three buttons of his shirt. That trigger willed him to action.

  
“Josiah,” he breathed his name as he clasped the other man’s hands in his own. “Don't.”

  
“You’re burning up, Arthur.” Trelawney said flatly. “Let me assist you in order to repay your act of friendship during a most terrible time, hm?”

  
A silent moment passed between them.

  
“Fine,” Arthur reluctantly agreed and released the other's hand. He closed his eyes again. His breath hitched in his lungs as he felt his shirt fall from his chest. Suddenly, he felt self-conscious of his battered body. He froze and kept his eyes shut ashamed of his disfigured flesh. His temples thumped erratically and heat flushed his face and ears. This did nothing to sate his nausea.

  
_Dear boy._

  
“You’re not nearly as famished as the last time I saw you,” Trelawny exclaimed in a near whisper. He rang the cloth out and dabbed at Arthur's collarbone, chest, and stomach. Arthur flinched with each touch. It was too intimate. “It’s remarkable really, Arthur. I thought you weren’t long for this world.”

  
_Tuberculosis, son, it's a hell of a thing._

  
Arthur said nothing. All of this was too overwhelming—turned his mind to mush.

  
“I imagine you’re quite curious as to why and how you’re in this predicament?” Trelawny paused as he rewetted the cloth. “I hadn’t the chance to witness all that transpired, but it appeared you were in an altercation with two other men during your time in that tavern. Over what, I haven’t the slightest idea, but you won, I suppose, and then blacked out.” He continued to dab around Arthur’s face and neck while carefully avoiding his injured jaw. “You should really see the other two gentlemen—you really did quite a number on them. I heard it was rather impressive considering your generous consumption of alcohol, after all.”

  
“Where ‘m I?” Arthur asked. He spoke his words slow through his tensed jaw.

  
“Always straight to the point. I’ve always admired that about you, Arthur!” Trelawny left the cloth draped across Arthur’s forehead. Arthur heard his footsteps fade.

  
“Josiah?” Arthur sat up a bit and opened his eyes. He couldn’t see much and his head continued to ache, but could tell the room was tight for space and that Trelawny was not near. He fumbled with buttoning his shirt.

  
“I’ll be right there, Arthur,” he called from a different space. Trelawny reappeared with a tray in one hand and a small oil lamp in the other. Arthur could not help but be fascinated as the little light illuminated Trelawny’s face. He looked impeccably groomed and smartly dressed as always: pomade in his combed hair and wax used to twist the corners of his mustache. Arthur watched as the light reflected in the magician’s green eyes. It was almost hypnotic.

  
“It's considered impolite to stare, dear boy.” Josiah quirked as he placed the lamp down and picked a cup and walked over to Arthur. “Unless, of course, you see something you like.” He winked then.

  
_Dear boy._

  
“Um—I—Mr. Trelawny—”

  
“I meant it in jest, Arthur,” Trelawny purred as he handed a steaming cup to Arthur. “This concoction of sorts will ease that hangover of yours and that discomfort in your jaw—may even help you sleep a tad bit better.”

  
“Thanks,” Arthur muttered as he gulped down the warm liquid. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  
“Of course, of course. You’ll have to excuse me, Arthur. As I’m sure you quite well know, it has been rather difficult out there these days. Especially, since the gang split...it’s been hard. Even for someone such as myself.” Arthur watched as Trelawny leaned against the wall, crossed his arms, and stared up at the ceiling. “To answer your question; we are penned up just on the edge of Thieves Landing.”

  
“That so,” Arthur hummed as he continued to sip his drink. He looked over to Trelawny who was watching him with stern eyes.

  
“It is, I’m afraid. It's not my first choice when it comes to low down dirty crime infested places to lie low in you know, but the law is scarce.” Trelawny furrowed his brow. “I’d like to know how you obtained that horse. I’m certain there’s a story.”

  
Arthur spent the next several minutes recounting the events of Thornberry leaving nothing out with the exception of Anna Smith, Dutch, and the TB pills.

  
“That’s interesting. You actually seemed to be doing not to bad for yourself then." Trelawny frowned. “After all this nonsense with you lads, I can’t go home let alone step foot anywhere near Saint Denis. I haven't even wrote them. My boys…Tarquin and Cornelius. I miss my boys.”

  
“I’m sorry, Josiah.”

  
“It’s not your fault, Arthur.” He stood up fully from where he had been leaning, walked over to Arthur, and placed a hand on his shoulder. “You need rest as do I. If you need anything and I mean anything, dear boy, don’t hesitate for a moment.”

  
And Arthur was alone again with his conflicting thoughts. Josiah had taken the small lantern with him. Listening to the anguish in Trelawny’s voice about missing his boys made Arthur’s heartache return. He wondered if Dutch missed his boys—his sons.

  
_Sons of Dutch._

  
That was his last thought before slumber took him.

* * *

“Arthur, be a good lad and accompany me into town?” Trelawny strode into the room smartly dressed just as before, but with a top hat and cane matching his dark blue suit. He drew the curtain so slight.

  
“Huhhh,” Arthur groaned at the invading sunlight as he stretched and sat up. “Whatchu got that need attendin' to?”

  
“Oh, you know me,” Trelawny purred. “Business and pleasure.”

  
“That so?” Arthur stood up, slipped his worker boots on, and placed his dark cowboy hat on his messy head of hair. “Business, huh?”

  
“And pleasure,” Trelawny quipped. He winked.

  
“Whatever you say,” Arthur said as his ears reddened. “Where’s my things?”

  
“On that magnificent stolen horse of yours. He must have come from quite the prestigious pedigree. Certainly, someone will be missing him sooner or later.” Trelawny beckoned for Arthur to follow him outside.

  
“Yeah, yeah.” Arthur followed him outside and saddled up on Ransom. “Lead the way.”

  
“Don’t dally, dear boy.” Trelawny mounted Gwydion with a grace Arthur could never replicate.

  
“So what kinda business you got here in this kinda town?” Arthur asked as the horses trotted in unison. "Wouldn't figure you're a feller who'd be in a place like this."

  
“Like I said before, Arthur, it's a good place to lie low. Just need to…wrap something up.” Trelawny responded.

  
“Why you bein' so cryptic?”

  
“Oh, you know, surprises keep a man on his toes."

  
“I don’t like this, Josiah. Be straight with me.”

"Don't worry your handsome head." Trelawny chided.

"Josiah," Arthur warned.

  
“Why can't you trust me and be just a bit patient, Arthur? Have a little faith, hm?”

  
Arthur halted Ransom then.

  
_Faith. _

  
Emotions flooded him in that instance. He gripped the reins so tight that the leather began to cut into his hands. Rage came out on top—the most dangerous kind. The silent kind.

  
“Arthur?”

  
_Faith._

  
“Was it something I said?”

  
_Have some goddamn faith._

  
“Are you not well?”

  
Arthur said nothing but spurred Ransom on past a dumbfounded Trelawny, who was smart enough not to pursue him.

* * *

Something was different in the air tonight. Mockingly, the moon seemed to be a little too large in the sky and a little too bright as Arthur walked in and then to the furthest end of the Thieves Landing Saloon (not the tavern he had previously had the altercation in) where he sat at a table alone. Piano music and lively chatter filled the air. He ordered a bottle of whiskey and bowl of stew from one of the working girls.

Once served, Arthur took three shots. He was finding it harder and harder to become numb, but all the more necessary. Three shots use to do the trick. Now, he would have to nearly finish a whole bottle himself to get the results he sought.

  
“See Aiden!” A voice exclaimed as the saloon doors rattled open. “The two Ls. Like I promised. Ladies an’ liquor!” There was some obnoxious chatter exchanged between a small group of men who seated themselves at the bar. “Give us a round ‘ere, bartender.”

  
Arthur’s mood continued to sour. He motioned for the nearest working girl to bring him a fifth of whiskey. “Thanks,” he muttered as he was served and shooed her away.

  
“This score,” the voice continued. “It could be the last one, Aiden! The hail Mary you’ve been watin' fer.”

  
Ever annoyed, Arthur took a long drink. “Smug fucker,” he mumbled to himself. And that was when he heard it; the great booming laugh he had come to adore over the past twenty years. His body was no longer warmed by the whiskey. Goosebumps pimpled his skin as his eyes shot over to where the men sat at the bar. His ears must have deceived him.

  
“O'Malley, I’m telling ya’ that this is the one and then you can go retire in that Tuh-Jetti as you always sayin' or whatever it is and grow them damned yella termatahs.” The familiar laughter erupted yet again.

Arthur could not be sure if his heart beat an extra count or if it had missed a beat entirely. His knees felt weak and his chest hurt—his lungs burned. He shut his eyes tightly as he groped at reality to stave his nerves and the nausea that surfaced. He rubbed his bleary eyes and gripped the table to steady himself as his heart dropped to the floor. His face grew warm and all he could do was stare in his stupor. 

At the far end of the bar, seated at the counter chatting on all too casually, was thee Dutch van der Linde. Arthur stated in disbelief at his profile. Van der Linde was dressed much more modestly than Arthur could ever remember in a light blue suited outfit with matching hat. Not only were there no black vest and hat, but there were no bits of gold, rings, or chains either. Dutch's black curly hair hung much longer than usual falling just short of his shoulders, and his mustache had become a very short and even beard. Van der Linde was busy chatting with the working girl who had just served Arthur as Arthur downed a gulp of whiskey. He closed his eyes while it burned down his throat. He opened them again as his chest burned.

_Dutch._

Breathing became a labor intensive act as he continued to watch his once brother, father, mentor, leader, and friend socialize and drink in merriment as if nothing ever happened—like Sean, Lenny, and Hosea never happened—like Micah the rat never happened.

_Breathe._

“’N'other,” Arthur all but slurred to the nearest working girl.

“I think you’ve right had enough, mister.” The girl protested.

“Gimme ‘nother,” he demanded just above a whisper as he thrust five dollars toward her.

“O'course, mister.” After snatching the money, the girl turned away.

Once served, Arthur continued to drink angrily as his breathing became even more irregular as he watched the scene unfolding in front of his alcohol glazed eyes. Dutch pulled the nearest working girl into his lap. She had laughed and continued to giggle as Van der Linde whispered his famous pick up lines into her ear. She must have fell for it just as all of those many before her had. Arthur could tell as her cheeks flushed. She bit her lip and placed her arms around his neck.

Before Arthur could down another drink, those same brown eyes once focused on the working girl, were now focused on him.

Arthur felt reality slipping. Fear and rage gripped him. He took another swig of whiskey as he watched his former mentor slip gracefully from the arms of the disappointed working girl. Arthur locked eyes with him then, unable to blink or breathe. The room began to spin.

_Dutch._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took longer than I anticipated to get this next chapter out. I rewrote the entire thing three times and settled on this version. Let me know how you do or don't like it.


	3. Just Like Old Times

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> See chapter title.

_Dutch_.

  
Struck by anger and stupor, Arthur remained unable to move staring at the man who saved him from a life on the streets—saved him from himself on more than one occasion.

  
Regardless of how Arthur felt, he knew this was dangerous—this situation was dangerous. Dutch being within such close proximity and after all that had happened—

  
“You son of a bitch,” Arthur roared as he threw his dining table to the side in his sudden alcohol induced rage. Glass clattered and shattered. “You killed us—killed 'em all!” He stepped toward Dutch quickly all the while spouting curses and insults. “It’s your goddamned fault!” The world was tipsy as he staggered closer. All eyes were on them.

  
Dutch remained forever poised and unphased by Arthur's accusations and outburst.

  
“Aiden, ya' want us to kick this feller’s ass?”

  
“Yeah, O'Malley, we'll kick his ass for ya'!”

  
Several other voices egged on the altercation, hopeful for entertainment.

  
“I’ve got this, boys.” Dutch dismissed the other men. He turned his attention to Arthur then, who was a mere three feet in front of him with his face reddened and hands clenched into fists. “Son, let’s you and me step outside.” His voice was low, a warning.

  
“I ain’t your goddamned son,” Arthur growled as he threw a punch at Dutch, who easily deflected it. Arthur felt a sudden pain in his jaw and then world went black, again for the what was it now—the third, fourth, fifth time?

* * *

Some many hours later, Arthur woke with a start, massive headache, and hole in his heavy heart.

In the dim light of the room, he sat up straight only to wince, realizing he was still drunk, and eased back down onto the surface on which he laid. He was certain based on the smells of smoke, liquor, and the same noises and voices as before that he was in a space above the saloon where it was safe. He had drank too much, gotten into another brawl, lost his hat in the process, and one of the working girls must have helped him to this room to sleep it off and—

“Arthur Morgan.” His name was thick velvet. To his still drunken bewilderment, Dutch van der Linde sat all too casually in the arm chair next to the bed on which he lay. The moonlight that crept through the window, illuminated the room so slight.

  
Immediately, Arthur wretched into the wash basin next to the bed while keeping his eyes locked with Dutch's silhouette. His throat was dry and burned from the acid. His breath caught in his chest once more. His emotions flooded to him, again. Silently cursing himself, he sat back, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, and leaned his back against the coolness of wall. He closed his eyes to steady the adrenaline that pulsed in his ears and the alcohol that was still fresh in his blood.

"Dutch," he breathed with still closed eyes. He heard the familiar catch of a match as it lit, which was soon followed by the smell of burning tobacco. “What you doin’ here?”

“Business.” Arthur opened his eyes and watched as the cherry end of the cigar glowed red hot as Dutch puffed on it just as casually as he had chatted, drank, and pulled that worker girl into his arms earlier.

“Sounds like you’re still chasing that goddamned dream, Dutch or should I call you Aiden O'Malley now?” Arthur coughed hard and closed his eyes again as his head continued to spin. Nausea threatened to surface again.

  
“Dutch will do just fine.”

  
Arthur wretched for the second time into the wash basin. He leaned forward too far this time, causing his sinuses to burn. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve again and sat back, straining his eyes in the dark as he tried to see Dutch's expression.

  
Just as Dutch opened his mouth to speak, Arthur's rage returned. He flew at Dutch in his drunkenness, slamming him clumsily against the wall by the collar of his shirt. He held his face just inches from Dutch’s, glaring into his eyes in the near pitch darkness. He knew Dutch could have easily subdued him again and that this act of violence against his former leader should not be tolerated, but Dutch did nothing as he still held the smoldering cigar in his hand.

The familiar smell of Dutch permeated his senses as he felt his knees weaken. This was too much too fast. Arthur breathed heavily as all the things he wanted to say and scream came flooding back to him in that instant, but he could not will his mouth to speak.

  
Dutch's façade always held true—even now. Frustrated, he released Dutch and threw himself back down to sit on the bed only to erupt into a coughing fit. Once it subsided, he held his face in his hands.

“Arthur, I—"

“Why’d you do it, Dutch? Why?” Arthur whined from the safety of his hands. The tears threatened to fall as he became more overwhelmed in his stupor.

“Get some rest.” Arthur watched the cherry end of the cigar as Dutch’s figure drifted across the room to the door. “Once you’ve sobered, we'll talk, son.”  
Son.

  
“Don’t,” Arthur childishly pleaded. “Don’t go.” He was afraid of losing him again. Losing him again meant losing himself. In that moment, Arthur’s alcohol poisoned mind rationalized that he would die of this. He would not die at the gallows nor of the Tuberculosis, he would die of this—of Dutch van der Linde, the man in the flesh.

  
“Rest,” Dutch repeated. He walked over to where Arthur sat and just like Trelawny had, Dutch laid his hand on Arthur's shoulder. It was heavy and made Arthur tense. “I won’t be far.” He left without another word, closing the door behind him.

* * *

“There he is,” exclaimed Trelawny over a news paper he had been reading. He was seated at a saloon table alone. “Good Afternoon, Arthur.”

  
“Afternoon," Arthur muttered as he sat himself down across from the other man. “Where’s Dutch?” His own question pained his ears and heart. He hoped he did not sound too pathetic.

  
“How do you feel? You slept an awful long time.” Trelawny studied him with stern eyes. “I was terribly worried.”

  
“’M fine.” Arthur answered as he rubbed his bloodshot eyes. In truth, he physically felt like death and mentally he felt just as bad. His mind was plagued with Dutch. He waved over the nearest working girl. “Coffee.”

  
Once served, he looked back at the magician, who continued to observe him. “What the hell you staring at, Trelawny?”

  
“I’m not so impolite as to stare, dear boy,” he responded as he folded the news paper neatly and set it aside. “I was simply admiring—”

  
“Josiah Trelawny and Arthur Morgan,” interrupted the familiar booming voice that demanded attention and respect. “What a pleasant surprise.” Dutch quickly strode over and sat down next to Arthur bumping his elbow as he did so. Arthur winced.

  
“Mr. van der Linde,” Trelawny greeted. “How good to see you alive and…well.” His eyes drifted to Arthur.

  
“Dutch,” Arthur managed through his clenched jaw. He could not bring himself to meet either of their eyes—not yet. He nursed his black coffee.

  
“Let's get down to it then,” Dutch said with enthusiasm. “As we’ve previously discussed, Josiah, just outside of town is a blacksmith named Moriarty. Now, Mr. Moriarty has gotten himself into a spot of smelting down stolen gold into untraceable bullion and bars. Got a good tip from my boys that he should be finishing the latest batch…” Dutch glanced at his pocket watch. “…right about now. Josiah, my old friend, as we planned you’ll play the distraction.”  
All this talk made Arthur sick to his stomach.

  
“Very good,” Trelawny responded. He folded his hands neatly on the table.

  
“Arthur, you’re with me,” Dutch finished.

  
“Dutch, I—” Arthur's ears reddened. He was thankful for the cover of his hat.

  
“Let's roll out, boys,” Dutch stood and departed the saloon.

Trelawny stood, but lingered near where Arthur sat staring into his now cool coffee.

“All right there, Arthur?”

“How can he…” Arthur paused to ease his nerves and frustrations. “How can he act like nothing’s happened?”

“He can because he is Dutch van der Linde, dear boy,” Trelawny said quietly. He placed his hand on Arthur's shoulder, who trembled at the touch. “This is the business I could not tell you about.”

  
“I understand,” Arthur sighed as he shrugged Trelawny's hand away. “But why with him?”

  
“As I told you before, Arthur, times have been difficult to say the least. You can’t be too careful with who you trust these days.”

  
“An' you trust him?” Arthur looked at him them with disgust on his face. “Of all people?”

  
“He has my complete and utter confidence.” Trelawny answered quickly as he twirled one side of his finely groomed moustache. “Come now.”

  
“Fine.” Arthur groaned as he rose and followed Trelawny out of the saloon and to the horses hitched up outside.

  
The afternoon sun was high in the sky. The questionable populace of Thieves Landing moved around them not paying them a second glance. It was unnerving to Arthur.

  
“Good boy,” Arthur purred to Ransom as he mounted him.

  
Josiah watched in enjoyment as Arthur slipped the horse a sugar cube and stroked its mane and neck.

  
“What you lookin' at, Trelawny?”

  
“Nothing, Arthur,” he chided. “Nothing at all.”

* * *

Overall, the con went as well as they could have hoped. Trelawny spun one of his infamous and enthralling yarns, which gained the attention of the black smith and his two apprentices. One of Dutch's new boys, the one who was carrying on in the saloon, subdued the only hired help. Dutch had Arthur help him sneak into the smelter area and make off with the newly smelted bars and bullion. All the while, Dutch was all business.

  
After the job was done, Dutch suggested that they split up just in case the blacksmith was idiotic enough to pursue them.

  
“O’Brien, you go with Mr. Trelawny here and get this gold somewhere safe.”

  
“Aye, boss,” O'Brien responded with a two finger salute.

  
“Mr. van der Linde, Mr. Morgan...” Trelawny looked to Arthur then. Arthur could not be sure what was reflecting in those green eyes of his. “As always, it’s been a pleasure.”

  
Dutch waved as the two men disappeared on horseback. He turned his attention to Arthur.

  
“Just like old times,” Dutch mused as he started his dark horse in a slow trot. When he did not receive a response, he looked over his should to see that Arthur had not moved—had not even mounted his horse yet. He just stood there in the shade of the trees holding Ransom’s reins loosely in one hand.

  
“Arthur?” Dutch turned his horse around. Once close enough, he dismounted and walked slowly to Arthur who’s back was to him. “Arthur.” He tried again.

  
“Dutch,” Arthur sighed. He crossed his arms as he stared into the woods. “How can you…” His words trailed off due to the pain in his chest. “You act like nothing's—you left me…”

  
A long moment of silence pasted between them. Arthur stood facing the forest with his arms crossed. Dutch stood just behind him.

  
“Arthur,” Dutch tried again.

  
“Dutch.” Arthur turned to face him then. He kept his arms crossed as he held Dutch's dangerous gaze.

  
“Son, won’t you come home?” The question itself seemed innocent enough, but the brown eyes behind the words that burned with that same deceptive intensity as before discouraged Arthur. Dutch held out his arms in that lovingly fatherly gesture. “Son?” There it was again. Even now he continued to use that word of endearment against him.

  
“I ain’t no son of Dutch,” Arthur spat the words bitterly. “I ain’t with all this lying and conniving crap. I can’t live like that no more.”

  
“I always thought of you as my best friend, you know.” Dutch stepped closer. “But you were always more than that, Arthur, much more.”

  
“You’re playing with my mind again, ain’t ya, Dutch?” Arthur accused as he crossed his arms tighter and glared. “Tryin' to get me to do somethin’ you want. I ain’t letting ya back in, Dutch. I ain’t doin' it. I ain’t.” He had begun to pace around in his fury. “I made it this far without you. I ain’t.”

  
“This far.” Dutch said the words flatly. “Arthur, you made it this far because I chose to take you to the best doctor—because of my choice.”

  
“You should have left me to die on the rock!”

  
Dutch turned from him then and started to walk back toward his horse. Arthur had done what he had intended to do. Dutch pulled himself up into the saddle and glanced back at Arthur with a sadness he had never seen in his mentor's eyes since Annabelle, his former lover, was murdered by none other than Colm O’Driscoll. Arthur had wounded Dutch. He knew it and he knew Dutch would not give anyone that satisfaction—that power over him.

  
_Every goddamned day, I missed you like the desert misses the rain._

  
Instantly, Arthur hated himself. He hated the whole situation. He hated Trelawny’s kindness or whatever it was—and he hated Dutch, but above it all he hated himself. He hated how quickly he wanted to bend to Dutch's will and have things be “just like old times.” His lungs burned. He hated how he had called out for him while he laid dying on the rock. He hated the way his heart ached for him and his praise and approval. He hated it all.

  
Regardless of the hate, he found himself mounting Ransom and spurring him onward once more. On the ground he saw hurried hoof prints. He followed quickly while scanning for Dutch on the horizon. It did not take him long.

  
“Dutch!” He hollered. “Dutch!”

  
Dutch had stilled his horse, waiting.

  
“Dutch,” Arthur breathed as he halted his horse just next to him. His lungs ached.

  
“Arthur.”

  
Again, they shared a moment of silence as blue stared into brown. Dutch reached over, without breaking eye contact, and pulled Arthur's horse closer by the saddle horn. He did not remove his hand.

  
“I’m sorry, Dutch, for what I said.” Arthur searched his ever stoic face for answers.

  
“It’s all right, s—Arthur.” Dutch blinked then and stared away. The damage was already done.

  
“I don’t understand why I do certain things knowin' I’ll never get nothing back.”

  
Dutch said nothing, but released the saddle horn and held the reins to his horse between his steady hands. He clicked his tongue and his horse began a slow trot. Arthur rode next to him.

  
Arthur could not help himself as words continued to pain his heart and flow out of him. "I used to care so much. I used to fight for this, Dutch. Loyalty was the only thing that was important to me. I tried my hardest to hold on an' keep you but you didn't want this as much as I did and then you acted like you didn’t even care anymore.” Arthur paused for a moment as sadness and realization washed over him. “I didn't lose you, Dutch. I was loyal until the end. If we are bein’ honest, you lost me."

  
Another long moment of silence occurred as they rode next to each other for quite some time. Arthur felt sick after he desperately felt the need to share what was on his heart and Dutch had not even acknowledged him. Dutch stared forward as Arthur snuck glances at him every so often. The man showed no signs of weakness, regret, or anything else for that matter. Arthur tried to be angry at him for it, but found that he was only capable of feeling utterly miserable.

  
“Never thought you liked blue,” Arthur tried. He was desperate to rebuild what he had earlier destroyed.

  
“I don’t.”

  
“You sure are decked out in it.” Arthur almost smiled.

  
“Sure am.”

  
“Never thought you was a beard man, either.”

  
“I’m not.”

  
Another moment of silence excluding the hoof beats of their steeds.

  
“What are we doing, Dutch?”

  
“You tell me.”

  
“I don’t know.”

  
There was a pause.

  
“Surviving, Mr. Morgan. We are surviving.”

  
They continued on without another word.  
Some time in early evening, Thieves Landing came back into view. A few lamps were lit along the streets and people continued to bustle about. Arthur had dropped back to follow behind Dutch who hitched up his horse just outside of hotel that had seen better days. Arthur did the same and followed just behind Dutch.

  
“Dutch?” Arthur questioned as they bypassed the counter attendant and headed to the second floor. “Dutch,” he tried again. He almost ran into Dutch's back as he halted and fumbled in his pockets.

“In,” Dutch commanded quietly.

  
Arthur obeyed. Dutch stepped in behind him and secured the door. Unsure of what to do and where they stood, Arthur decided to sit down at a table that had room for three more. He looked around the room. There were two double beds, two wash basins, two dressers, a large mirror, and what looked like a second adjoining sleep area. A thud brought him back to reality.

  
“Ahhh,” Dutch sighed as he kicked off his boots near the door. Arthur startled at the sound. He watched as Dutch proceeded to remove his blue hat, jacket, and vest. He hung everything on a coat rack.

  
“Dutch?”

  
“Hm?” Dutch was left in a white collared shirt. Arthur found himself unable to respond as he watched as Dutch strode over to the large mirror, undid the first few buttons of his shirt, and rolled up the sleeves. He stood there as if in deep thought. It was then that Arthur noticed the bruising on Dutch’s hand.

  
“I’m sorry for…earlier in the saloon and on the road.” Arthur sighed as he placed his dark cowboy hat on the table. “I was outta line.”

  
“I know,” was all Dutch said. While still staring into the mirror, he ran his hands through his long black curly hair, which gave it that swept back look. Then, he ran his hands over his closely cropped beard as if he were considering Arthur’s earlier comment.

  
A sudden knock startled Arthur out of his trance of watching Dutch’s reflection.

  
“Aiden?” It was that same voice as in the bar and during the con.

  
“Let him in, Mr. Morgan,” Dutch commanded.

Arthur obeyed and opened the door enough for the other man and Trelawny to enter, before securing it.  
When Arthur turned, he saw that all of the other men were seated at the table already in conversation about something or other with the only open spot being between Dutch and Trelawny. Reluctantly, he took the seat and studied the new feller who he guessed had taken Arthur's spot as Dutch's right hand man—just like Micah had replaced Arthur—he had been replaced again.

  
The more Arthur looked at him, the more he noticed similarities between the new lieutenant and himself. The new man had short brown hair, a bit of scruff on his average face, and a similar posture to his own. His build even seemed similar to Arthur's before he had gotten sick. He wore a red collar shirt, dark jeans, and a brown cowboy hat.

  
“Whatchu say yer name was, feller?” The new lieutenant challenged. Arthur thought he must have caught him staring.

  
“I didn’t, mister,” Arthur all but growled.

  
“Boys,” Dutch countered. “Andrew O’Brien, this is Arthur Morgan. We used to run together.”

  
“Pleased tuh meet cha,” O’Brien held out his hand.

  
“Sure,” Arthur agreed halfheartedly and shook it, taking note of how rough and firm the other's hand was.

  
“When we headin' outta here, Aiden?” O’Brien asked as he tipped his head back.

  
“Soon,” Dutch responded. “There’s a few more things I have to see to before we make our move. Just a little more time, son.” Arthur winced.

  
“All right, boss.” O’Brien took that as his cue to depart. “I’ll be down yonder to the saloon fer a bit. Them girls look damn fine.” He tipped his hat. “See ya, fellers.”

  
Once the door closed, Arthur could not contain himself. “What the hell was that?”

  
“Hm?” Dutch reached in his pocket and pulled out a few papers that he began to look over. Without a word, Trelawny slid a folded piece of parchment to Dutch who placed it in his pocket.

  
“He your son, too?” Arthur challenged. “Does he know about us—what we was? The gang?”

  
“No.” Dutch continued to gaze of the papers he held in his hands seemingly unphased.

  
Arthur wanted to continue to pry and accuse, but was discouraged when Trelawny placed his hand on Arthur’s shoulder.

  
“Before I turn in for the night, I’m going to see if I can get some supper from the saloon. Join me, Arthur?” Trelawny squeezed his shoulder to encourage.

  
“Fine,” Arthur agreed and stood as Trelawny did. He replaced his hat on his messy head of hair. He glanced to Dutch who did not even give them a second look.

  
“See you, Mr. van der Linde,” Trelawny said as he departed with Arthur at his heels.

  
“Josiah,” Dutch said dismissively.

  
Once they were outside, Trelawny clasped his arm around Arthur's shoulders. Arthur tensed immediately.

  
“Don’t let it get to you, Arthur,” Trelawny cooed as they walked on to the saloon. “He’s not worth the worry.”

  
“Which one you talkin’ about?” Arthur wriggled free from the other’s arm.

  
“Our dear friend Aiden of course.”

  
“Yeah, yeah,” Arthur responded as they continued.  
Once the two were seated in the saloon, Trelawny ordered a bowl of stew and coffee for them both. Arthur looked around for O’Brien in the crowded space to no avail and figured he must have already been getting busy—

  
“Arthur, have you heard a word I’ve said?”

  
“Sorry, Josiah.” Arthur looked across the table and meet the magician’s green eyes as his ears reddened. Even after the job, Trelawny looked impeccable from the sharp creases in his suit to the perfect way his mustache was styled. Arthur smirked then.

  
“Find something I said amusing, dear boy?” Trelawny quipped as he dabbed at his chin with a cloth and pushed his finished stew aside.

  
“Nah,” Arthur responded and allowed himself to smile completely. “I'm just glad you ain’t changed none—still just as slippery and hot aired as I remember.”

  
“I’ll take that as a compliment.” Josiah smiled and sipped his coffee.

  
“Sure.”

* * *

Arthur could not remember when he started throwing back whiskey that evening, but he had even against his better judgment and Trelawny’s protests.

  
“This isn’t a good look on you, Arthur,” Trelawny said as he was now seated next to him with his hand on his shoulder. “You’ll be sick again.”

  
“’M fine,” Arthur slurred just a bit. “You worry to much, fancy man.”

  
“Perhaps I do,” Trelawny sighed as he continued to study Arthur. “I care about you a great deal is all.”

  
“Why? It’s not like we was ever more than acquaintances, Josiah.” Arthur took another drink.

  
“Arthur…” Josiah paused as if he were pondering something significant then changed his mind. “You saved my life twice for certain, dear boy. I suppose I feel indebted to you..”

  
“That so?” Arthur turned to face him then.

  
“I believe so.”

  
Suddenly, Arthur felt grief—raw grief at the thought of Dutch returning to that rock surface he had laid on, seeing his boy near death, hoisting him up, carrying him however far, and getting him to the doctor in time with the law and Pinkerton Agency nipping at his heels. He wondered if Dutch had remained cool, calm, and collected throughout the entire ordeal. He hoped not. He wondered if Dutch new about the TB. Regardless, it broke his heart. Dutch did care—or perhaps it was pity.

  
“I gotta go,” Arthur breathed.

  
“Of course.” Trelawny continued to sip his coffee as he eyed the other man and removed his grasp.

  
“Thanks, Josiah,” he managed as he stood and turned to leave.

  
“Sweetest dreams, Arthur,” Trelawny had called after him.

* * *

Arthur thought of every event from Blackwater to Guarma to Rainsfall to Hosea to the Pinkerton army as he made his way back to the hotel. He did not allow himself to dwell on Micah the rat or the other deaths of the gang—his family. But he thought of Dutch.

  
Dutch had tried to be civil—maybe even friendly. He seemed happy to see Arthur at first—until Arthur ruined it. Son and Arthur turned into Arthur and Mr. Morgan. Arthur hated it—hated himself for it.

  
Arthur stopped to relieve himself before continuing inside and up the stairs. He felt himself sway a bit as he placed his had on the doorknob.

  
_Locked. Of course_.

  
He knocked on the door.

  
“Mr. Morgan,” Dutch greeted flatly. “Come in.” He stepped aside.

  
“Hey, Dutch.” Arthur moved past him and leaned himself against the wall facing the mirror again. His head swam.

  
The room was dim with the exception of a few candles from where it looked like Dutch had been reading on one of the nearby beds. Dutch looked at him disapprovingly as he settled himself back down and re-opened his book.

  
“Josiah said you’ve been making a habit of this these days.”

  
“What else he say?” Arthur shot back, not caring who might be in the adjoining room.

  
“Not much.” Dutch looked back to his book.

Arthur gritted his teeth in an attempt to settle his mind. He felt wound up, but wanted to fix this thing with Dutch. He swayed slightly as he walked closer to stand just in front of him.

  
“Thanks,” he mumbled unable to look anywhere but the floorboards.

  
“For?” Dutch knew. He already knew, but Arthur also knew that he wanted him to say it—to admit it—to acknowledge it—to make it something real and tangible.

  
“For…” Arthur put all of his energy to bury all of the pent up hate, self-loathing, and anger he felt. “For not leaving me to die—for saving—for coming back for me.” He heard the waver in his own voice. It made him sick.

  
“I thought you’d write,” Dutch said quietly. He had closed his book and set it aside. Arthur gained his full attention.

  
“I thought about it,” Arthur admitted still unable to meet his eyes. He felt so feeble—so small.

  
“I understand.” He heard Dutch shift on the bed. “It’s been difficult for all of us.”

  
“I know, I know.” Arthur looked up at him then. The candlelight danced in Dutch’s dark eyes. His expression appeared to be one of concern. If it was genuine, Arthur was not sure.

  
“What will you do now?” Dutch asked.

  
“Dunno yet.” Arthur hung his head. “I often try to think of what…of what Hosea would do—what he would say. I miss ‘em, Dutch.”

  
“There ain’t a day that goes by that I don’t think of dear Hosea, son.”

  
_Son_.

  
The term of endearment was back with some sincerity and softness in his former mentor's voice. Arthur’s heart fluttered as he thought that Dutch might have changed since everything went wrong in the Saint Denis bank robbery—that he might be himself again and maybe he had recovered from the loss of his dear friend Hosea who had pushed him over the edge.

  
Arthur really hoped that he was back to being the old Dutch that had raised him along with his partner in crime, Hosea—the same Dutch that had taught him to read, write, ride, and shoot—the man with the answer, the man plan, the man with the unwavering courage in the face of all things against them, the man who took in those in need—the man that he had idolized when he was younger. He longed for that Dutch—needed that Dutch.

  
“Arthur.” The simple utterance of his name from Dutch's lips pulled him from his thoughts and commanded his attention.

  
“Yeah?”

  
“There wasn’t a day that went by, son, that I-I didn’t think of you, too.”

  
There was a pause. Arthur knew it was no small feat for Dutch to confess something so true--to admit something of the heart.

  
“I don’t know what to say, Dutch.” Arthur mentally kicked himself. He knew what he wanted to say, but feared and expected humiliation and rejection.

  
“That’s just fine,” Dutch assured him. He stood then, closed the small distance between them, and placed his hand on Arthur's back, a platonic gesture.

Regardless, Arthur tensed under the touch. Dutch's warmth burned through his shirt.

  
“Mhm,” was all Arthur could manage under his duress.

  
“For now, I’ll be appreciative that my best son is back.” Dutch guided him to the adjoining sleeping area. “Join me at the saloon for lunch tomorrow.”

  
“Sure.” Arthur sat down on the bed closest to the window, kicked off his boots, and set his hat aside. Next, he started to unbutton his soiled shirt, but stopped short when he noticed Dutch lingering in the dimly lit space. He felt color flush his face.

  
“Dutch?” He hated how pathetic he must have sounded.

  
“It's good to have you back.” Dutch smiled then. “Get some rest.” With that, he turned on his heel and left a distraught Arthur to wrestle with his less than innocent thoughts.

  
“I wish I could say it’s good to be back,” Arthur muttered to himself as he tossed his shirt and belt onto the nightstand.

  
“Thought you’d fellers never shut it.”

  
“O’Brien?”

  
“Yeah, Morgan. Can’t a man get some sleep,” Andrew muttered from the bed next to him. Being distracted by Dutch had caused him to be less aware of his surroundings.

  
“How much of that did you hear?” Arthur panicked.

  
“Enough tuh know you got a lunch date with Aiden—I mean Dutchy tomorrow.”

  
“You shut your goddamned mouth.” Arthur snapped in a near whisper.

  
“Oh, I will, but only ‘cause I’m tired after fuckin’ that one girl that Aiden fancied before you had your temper tantrum and got your lights knocked out.” Andrew laughed.

  
“You’re a real piece.” Arthur countered as he slid under the covers and laid his aching body down and closed his eyes.

  
“I sure am,” Andrew chuckled. “Ol' Aiden loves me for it, too.”

  
“Whatever you say.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I appreciate all the kind words and kudos! My sincerest apologies for taking so damned long to update. Let me know how you feel about this one.


	4. Actions Speak Louder Than Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur suffers from another hangover. Trelawny enlightens him. Andrew O'Brien is a jerk. Dutch is something else. Arthur really is the best at messing things up.
> 
> WARNING: Unwanted Advances/Assault

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to apologize for taking far too long to update. Without getting too personal, I had a health event that scored me a flight and a rather long hospital stay. Most things are back to normal and I am good to go now!

* * *

_Don’t you ever leave love aside, Arthur. It’s all we got._

  
Groaning at his hangover, Arthur cursed himself out loud. He sat up, allowing the blanket and sheet to fall from his thinning chest. The room was bright and hurt his eyes. He gave into a brief coughing fit. Thankfully, Andrew O’Brien was scarce.

  
“Goddamn.” The word slipped from his lips for the second time as he rubbed his eyes. He glanced about the room and noticed it was sparse with the exception of two wash basins and nightstands. He allowed himself to remain in bed for several moments as he reflected on the events of yesterday.

  
_There wasn’t a day that went by, son, that I-I didn’t think of you, too._

  
As Arthur pondered more and more, he wondered if there was any ounce of sincerity in those words. He hoped that there was, but he held the ever looming doubt closest to his chest—not wanting to be played like a fool as he once had been. The grandiose speeches, the demanding presence, the promise of loyalty, and the sophisticated airs—Arthur was unsure of it all—unsure of Dutch Van der Linde.

  
Next, he thought of Hosea. He had been a father to him more than Dutch ever had, Arthur supposed. Sure Dutch taught him many things, but it was Hosea that had nurtured and been the voice of reason for him. He loved him as he though he should have loved his father—his real father. Hosea was something special—he had loved him more.

  
Never one to be, Arthur found himself nervous and full of dread as he readied himself for the day. Before stepping into the main sleeping area, he washed as best he could in the basin, donned his stained blue shirt and pants, and smoothed his hair with difficultly. He approached the big mirror and was disgusted by his diminished appearance.

  
_What a' ugly feller._

  
Despite his efforts, dirt and grime were still visible throughout his complexion. His hair was a bit too long and his beard a bit unkempt. He coughed again.

  
“All right there, Arthur?”

  
Arthur startled at the sound and cleared his throat. “Fine.” He ran his hand through his hair once more before covering it with his dark hat. “Just fine.”

  
“Certain about that are you?”

  
“O' course.” Arthur turned then to see Trelawny seated at the table with raised brow, watching him while he placed a pamphlet aside. He cleared his throat. “How ‘bout you?”

  
“Since we’ve gotten the gold somewhere considered most safe, I’ve been feeling a tad bit better. The buyer though, that’s a whole other issue entirely,” Trelawny responded and gestured for Arthur to sit opposite of him. “Indulge me for a moment, would you?”

  
“Sure.” Arthur obliged as he seated himself. “What you want, Josiah?”

  
“What do I want?” Trelawny chuckled. “Certainly, Arthur, you don’t wish to hear me droll on and on about my lasciviousness. Undoubtedly, I can assure you that you don’t wish to know of my cajolery either.”

  
“Those are some fancy words.” Arthur dismissed their unknown meanings to him as he studied the magician.

  
Without fail, Trelawny’s appearance was impeccable with green eyes so serious and watchful. Arthur wondered if he would ever see the conman disheveled and out of sorts ever again as he had been that one day when Charles Smith and he sought his rescue from the bounty hunters. It was surely something to see such a flawless being in such a way with hair unkempt, suit a mess, and beaten—broken. Even now, Arthur could not help but be fascinated by the small details of the man before him such as the way the crows feet at the corners of Trelawny’s eyes became more prominent as he smiled.

  
“You, sir, are quite a card, Arthur Morgan.” Josiah quipped. His words brought Arthur back from his reminiscing mind.

  
“What you mean by that?” Arthur looked beyond Trelawny as discomfort settled in his stomach.

  
“Are you certain you want me to enlighten you?”

  
“Sure, Trelawny,” Arthur retorted. “Enlight’n me.”

  
“I’d like to apologize before I start as I don’t want you to think of me as rude—because rude I am not. In my humble opinion, you, Arthur Morgan, a handsome and loyal to a fault ruffian, have never taken a spouse, nor a suitor, nor seriously courted anyone to my knowledge. However, you gave every ounce of yourself and more to that gang—that family of misfits—to Dutch Van der Linde, whom you followed without hesitation and without seeing the fruits of your labor living from score to score with the promise of something great that always remained out of reach. Although I’m aware that I don’t know the half of it, as far as I can tell, they don't—he doesn’t deserve you. He doesn’t deserve your unwavering loyalty, intelligence, or work ethic in the slightest. Think for yourself, Arthur. What has he done for you? After it all and above all other things, he certainly doesn’t deserve the loyalty in your heart, dear boy.”

  
“You talk too much, Trelawny.” Arthur glared at the man seated opposite of him. “Talk too goddamn much about things you ain’t know about.”

  
“Of course, of course. Arthur, I didn’t mean to offend.” Trelawny’s expression fell to something perhaps synonymous with displeasure. Arthur could not be sure. “Forget I ever said it. Regardless of what you may think of me, I want to make it clear, Arthur…” He reached across the table and laid his hand on Arthur’s forearm. “…that if you ever need a friend, you’ll always have one in me.”

  
“Sure, Mr. Trelawny.” Arthur felt heat creeping up his neck. He stood quickly and watched as the other's smile dissolved. “I gotta go.”

  
“Very well.” The other became engrossed once more in his papers. “Remember what I said, Arthur and please give Dutch my best.”

* * *

“Arthur, my boy!”

  
“Dutch,” Arthur greeted as he pulled up a chair opposite of Dutch in the saloon. It was midday. The establishment was about half full and much quieter than before.

  
“You’re just in time, son. I’ve taken the liberty of ordering us both stew and coffee.” Seemingly a benevolent being at the moment, Dutch leaned back lazily and puffed on his cigar.

  
Arthur became enthralled at the way the smoke slowly billowed from the other’s lips and eerily obscured his bearded face. Dutch had donned a light brown suit and hatted outfit today, which made his brown eyes seem darker still.

  
Just as Dutch made eye contact with him, Arthur made himself busy between swirling his coffee and stew. He found it difficult to swallow.

  
“A Mr. Arthur Callahan is wanted for murder and horse theft in Thornberry.” Dutch laid the newspaper down in front of Arthur and pointed.

  
“Goddamn,” Arthur cursed as he eyed the article title. He cleared his throat to stave off a coughing fit.

  
_Killed a man in cold blood…like you always told me not to._

  
“The likeness in the sketch ain’t very good.” Dutch said in jest. He set the paper aside. “You look like shit, Arthur.”

  
“Mhm.” Arthur suddenly wanted to be anywhere else. His heart rate increased. The little bit of food in his stomach began to sour.

  
“I’ve been thinking, Arthur. I want you to come with us—come with me. Once our good friend Trelawny gets our money worked out for the gold, we’ve got one more score to set up. Once that's done, we're free to go wherever we want—take a boat—”

  
Before Dutch could say more, Arthur's world began to spin.

  
“’M sorry.” Arthur quickly made his way through the saloon doors as the entire contents of his stomach threatened to reappear. Arthur held his stomach as he doubled over and clenched his eyes shut through the waves of nausea.

  
“The fuck, Morgan!”

  
Arthur winced as he opened his eyes to a pair of dark boots covered in bile. He coughed.

  
“Ya deaf ‘er somethin'?”

  
Arthur wiped his mouth on his sleeve as he stood. “Sorry, O’Brien.”

  
“Sorry don’t clean my damn boots.” Andrew poked Arthur in the chest hard enough to make him stagger backward. “Gimme fifty dollars. Should cover me a new pair.”

  
“Piss off,” Arthur retorted as he stumbled away toward the other end of the boardwalk. Dizziness and nausea continued to plague him.

  
“Y‘ain’t gettin' off that easy,” O’Brien called after him. “Don’t ya walk away from me, Morgan!”

  
Arthur did not have the energy for the confrontation.

  
“Morgan! I ain’t playin' witchu.”

  
O’Brien’s words never made it to Arthur's ears.

  
“Last chance, Morgan!”

  
A moment later, Arthur felt a sharp pain in the back of his leg as he fell off of the boardwalk into the mud and filth of the street. Arthur caught himself on his hands and knees, lost his hat, and wretched again as pain seared his leg. He erupted in a coughing fit. Unbeknownst to Arthur, a horse's hoof nearly crushed his head. Someone yelled something unintelligible to his ears. The mud and muck oozed through his fingers as he wretched again.

  
A moment later someone pulled him up by the collar of his shirt and supported him as he swayed. His eyes grew dark.

  
“I’ve got you, Arthur.”

* * *

“What happened?”

  
“I was going to ask you the very same.”

  
“The hell if I know!”

  
“I’m not certain yet, but I cannot help but think that that new boy of yours had something to do with—”

  
“Are you trying to tell me Andrew—"

  
“Can y’all quiet down?” Arthur growled as he opened his eyes. The room was mostly white and sterile—a doctor's office. He closed his eyes again. He heard footsteps fade and the noise of rustling fabric.

  
“You’re all right, son.” The calm voice of his former mentor attempted to soothe him.

  
“Thought I looked like shit.”

  
Arthur kept his eyes closed as a heavy hand was placed on his forehead. It lingered there for only a moment. It was not a tender touch. He opened his eyes to see Dutch standing above him with his hat and jacket discarded. Arthur stared at the other’s bearded face.

  
“What happened?” Dutch's stare was intense. His brow was furrowed. Arthur was surprised that he had ignored his previous comment.

  
“That son of a—goddamn!” Arthur grabbed at his injured leg. He groped at the splint and bandages there. This was all Dutch's fault—his new right hand man, Andrew O’Brien--Arthur's replacement had done this to him.

  
“Doctor said it's a clean wound…lucky that it went all the way through."

  
“O’Brien did this to me, Dutch.”

  
“I highly doubt that—must have been an accident—a misunderstanding.” Dutch reached to place his hand on the other’s shoulder, but his hand was shrugged away. “Andrew’s a good one, Arthur. He wouldn’t do such a thing.”

  
“That feller has more in common with Micah,” Arthur spat. “He ain’t good, Dutch. I know it, but again, you’re too blind to see it.”

  
“Watch yourself, son, before you say something regrettable.” Dutch’s tone was low and threatening.

  
“Where's Trelawny?” Arthur glared at Dutch then.

  
“Outside.” Dutch eyed him.

  
As if on cue, the magician stepped into the room. “Mr. O'Malley, the doctor wants a word regarding your son.”

  
Dutch nodded and departed.

  
“Josiah,” Arthur greeted with much less contempt than he had previously held when speaking to Dutch.

  
“How are you feeling, Arthur?” Trelawny pulled a chair up close to the cot that Arthur lay on.

  
“Fine,” Arthur groaned. “Did he goddamn shoot me?”

  
“It would appear so.” Trelawny bowed his hatted head.

  
“Didn’t hear the gun being fired. Where's O’Brien?” Arthur questioned.

  
“After receiving quite a good thrashing, I heard Mr. Andrew O’Brien had fled like a pathetic pup with his tail between his legs.” The magician looked up and smirked at Arthur as he raised a bloodied and muddied cane in triumph. “Quite a trashing it was indeed.”

  
“Josiah!” Arthur exclaimed in disbelief. The man had not a hair out of place. “You ain’t never been one to get your hands dirty.”

  
“Anything for you, dear boy.” His smile turned to a look Arthur was unfamiliar with.

  
“Thanks.” Arthur sat up and stretched. He cleared his burning throat. “What you thinkin’, Josiah?”

  
“How he—how Dutch still doesn’t see what is in front of his very eyes,” he admitted flatly. “Blind fool, he is.”

  
“You mean about O’Brien?”

  
“May I be frank, Arthur?”

  
“O'course.”

  
Before Trelawny spoke, he sighed, leaned forward, and lowered his voice. “Dutch is not capable of what you seek, Arthur. I don’t believe you shall find any closure there either.” Trelawny placed a hand on Arthur’s arm and squeezed. “He has long since succumbed to what he has been all along. Besides, I know what you are, dear boy. Give me this honor of taking care of you?”

  
“What you mean?” Arthur was not sure if he should be offended or flattered. His heart ached nearly as much as his new injury, if not more.

  
“Excuse the term, lad, but I can recognize the persuasion when I see it. As you know, I’ve been a man of the social talent my entire life—”

  
“Let’s go.” Dutch's booming voice interrupted as he stepped back into the room. He eyed Trelawny as he withdrew his hand from Arthur. “Now.”

* * *

“What's he doin'?” Arthur stared in disbelief as he watched Dutch from his seat in the Thieves Landing saloon. It was evening. Trelawny had supported him as they walked and as they took up a table, sitting across from one another.

  
“Simply put, Arthur, he is being the only thing he can be, which is no one other than Dutch Van der Linde.” Trelawny shook his head and continued eating his supper of lamb and coffee.

  
Arthur could not will himself to look away. He watched as Dutch threw back whiskey after whiskey at the bar. It was strange and new for him to see Dutch so willingly seeking to lose control. He watched as Dutch pulled a redheaded working girl into his lap. He watched as Dutch whispered into her ear—watched as the girl blushed and hooked her arms around his neck. He watched in disgust as Dutch's hand reached under her skirts. She blushed further still.

  
Unable to cope with the scene in front of him, Arthur covered his face in his hands and exhaled slowly in an attempt to calm the overwhelming heat brewing in his chest. When he did look up, he saw the curvy woman pulling Dutch after her upstairs. His blood burned. His pulse was in his ears.

  
“All right, Arthur?” Trelawny questioned with a raised brow. His back had been to the scene that Arthur had just observed.

  
“Fine, Josiah,” he replied through gritted teeth. He took two long swings of the whiskey bottle in front of him. “Just fine.” Anger coursed through him at the thought of Dutch—

  
“Now, I think it would be best if we turn in for the night and rest that injury.” Arthur said nothing as Trelawny stood. “Come on, Arthur.” Trelawny took Arthur’s arm over his own and helped him out of the saloon.

  
Once outside of the saloon, Trelawny had gone on and on about things that never made it to Arthur's ears as his head was elsewhere.

  
Arthur felt numb as he thought about what Dutch was doing at the moment. Then, he felt sick, then anger. All the while, Trelawny was bearing most of his weight as they made the short trek to the hotel.

When they were about halfway there, Arthur's mind betrayed him as the whiskey settled in. He imagined the woman touching and kissing Dutch's lips—touching his chest as he took off her dress, how he’d climb on top of her—always the one to be in control—how he'd ravish and ruin her completely. Like all of the times he’d heard Dutch and Molly just a tent away...

  
Arthur knew not what overcame him in that instant, but before he knew it and with new found vigor and brashness, Arthur pushed Trelawny into the shadow of an alley and up against the wall.

  
Time stood still as Arthur stared at the surprised man in front of him. The cold stone of the wall did nothing to cool his mind as they stood in that position in the shadows for what felt like an eternity.

Before the magician could speak, Arthur crushed Trelawny against him as his mouth went to the other's throat. Once he had made the physical contact, he could not stop himself. He continued to come at Trelawny with all teeth as he slammed him up against the wall. He pushed his body flush up against the others as heat and urgency coursed through his veins. All of the neglect of another's touch, pent up feelings and frustrations over the years exploded.

  
Arthur cared not about savoring details of the other—he did not notice the way Trelawny froze or the unwanted pain that he was inflicting. He did not hear the words of protest for his undesired advances.

  
The air was deafening.

  
The darkness was the only witness.

  
Arthur continued to grab and grope the other's body with bruising fingers as he continued his assault on the other's throat.

  
This was desperation.

  
This was for Dutch.

* * *

Later that evening…

  
“We must discuss.” The voice was grim.  
Once more, Arthur opened his eyes to the dimly lit hotel room. His head ached, lungs burned, and leg stung. He sat up quickly. Trelawny was standing at the foot of his bed with arms crossed, eyes downcast, freshly dressed.

  
“Josiah?”

  
“I’ll admit I was flattered at first. As a gentleman and as your friend, I do not appreciate…under any circumstance…” Uncharacteristically, Trelawny stumbled over his words. “I do not have such violence coming from you, Mr. Morgan.” He turned his head. Arthur saw various bruises on the man's neck and felt sick again. “Whatever it is that plagues you...you must face it or cease it. Otherwise...” His voice trailed off then.

  
“Josiah,” Arthur said just above a whisper. He coughed. “I’m sorry.”

  
“They say actions speak louder than words, Mr. Morgan. I have to agree.” Trelawny met his gaze then. The look in his emerald eyes hurt Arthur to his core.

  
“Josiah, I…” Arthur groped for the words he wanted to say as Trelawny picked up a suitcase and headed toward the door. “I-I don't know why I do such things…I’m sorry.”

  
“Farewell, Arthur Morgan. Farewell.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did not intend for this chapter to go this way. It's a bit shorter than normal, but I hope you enjoyed it. The next installment will have more of Arthur and Dutch. 
> 
> Regardless, please let me know what you think!


	5. Always A Goddamn Train

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one is all Arthur and Dutch. Dialogue heavy it is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short one. Please enjoy!

There had to be a name for it—a name for what was wrong with Arthur—a name for the thing that plagued him with pain, grief, and shame—the drinking, the violence, and the self-loathing. And the longing—the goddamn longing for something that felt so one-sided and hopeless that willed him to overlook all of the past betrayals. A word—there had to be a word for such a terrible yet profound thing that made every waking moment agony.

  
The anger.

  
_…I know what you are, dear boy…_

  
The jealousy.

  
_…I can recognize the persuasion when I see it._

  
The vindictiveness.

  
_I do not have such violence coming from you, Mr. Morgan_.

  
Of all the words he knew and that Dutch had taught him, it seemed he had forgotten to teach Arthur the most agonizing word of all: unrequited. All that was left to do was pair that word with the feeling in his heart.

* * *

_Farewell, Arthur. Farewell._

  
Sometime later, Arthur managed to make his way to the main area of the hotel room and confirmed he was indeed alone. His leg had begun to pain him severely. He searched the room and found an opened bottle of gin, which he drained instantly before settling down at the table. He picked up the pamphlet Trelawny had discarded there.

  
It was from the sanatorium up north that the doctor in Saint Denis had told him about. Arthur bawled it up in his fist and tossed it aside. He had been failing to take his TB pills, which he left carelessly on his stolen horse, Ransom. Soon after, he succumbed to a short-lived coughing fit.

  
With everything that had happened recently, Arthur was itching to run. To run where, he knew not. He thought if maybe he could get to his horse and somehow manage to saddle and mount him on his own…

  
_Be loyal to the things that matter._

  
Arthur thought of John Marston then and smiled to himself. John had gotten away. Abigail had gotten away. Little Jack had gotten away. He wondered where they might be, but his mood soon soured at the thought of interrupting any type of normalcy that they might have established—for Jack.

  
So he sat there as the gin eased his pain everywhere but his heart. He missed his brother John Marston. He loved and hated Dutch Van der Linde. He hated Andrew O’Brien. He winced as he thought of Josiah Trelawny—he could not allow himself to think of what he had done—almost done to him.

  
As Arthur continued to ponder, he wondered if Andrew would come back and finish what he had started. He wondered if Dutch would return tonight in a rage or if he would continue to whore and drink. He wondered where Trelawny would go. Perhaps back to the outskirts of Thieves Landing? Or would he disappear into thin air as he often had in the past?

Just as Arthur began to feel sorry for himself, Dutch burst through the door with a menacing look on his face.

  
“We've got to go.” Dutch hurriedly grabbed several items, stuffing them into his pockets and the saddle bags he had slung over his shoulder. “Now.”

  
“Dutch, I...” Arthur sat in his stupor unable to even look at the other man's back. “I…”

  
“On your feet,” Dutch growled in annoyance as he tossed a satchel Arthur's way. It landed with a thud on the table.

  
“Can’t,” Arthur groaned. He tried to raise himself to no avail.

  
“Can’t or won't?” Dutch's voice sliced through the air.

  
“My leg, Dutch.” Arthur grabbed the satchel and slung it over his shoulder it was heavy. He managed to stand while leaning on the table. It stressed under his weight.

  
“O’Brien and Trelawny?”

  
“Don’t know.”

  
Dutch swore under his breath. “Can you walk?” Dutch continued clawing his way through many documents.

  
“Not on my own.” Arthur used the furniture in the room to make his way nearer to Dutch.

  
Dutch sighed in frustration as he pulled Arthur’s arm over his free shoulder and made way for the door, down the steps, and to the outside. It was dark and eerily silent.

  
“Stay here.” Dutch hurried away as he left Arthur leaning against the hotel exterior.

  
Before Arthur knew it, Dutch was back with their horses. He climbed down quickly and grabbed Arthur who he all but dragged to Ransom. Arthur groaned in pain as Dutch hastily lifted him onto the black Arabian.

  
Once they were both saddled up, Dutch took off like a bat out of hell with Arthur close behind.

* * *

What seemed like hours later, Dutch finally eased his horse to a trot. The moon provided little light. The night air was warm and thick. The silhouette of hills in the distance seemed sinister. It was quiet—too quiet.

  
“Arthur, you still with me?”

  
“Always, Dutch.” Arthur mentally kicked himself for the muscle memory response.

  
The silence and darkness was unsettling.

Desperately, Arthur wanted to ask what happened—why they had to leave. There had been no law in Thieves Landing. He knew it was not the time to ask that of him. Then, he thought of Dutch and that working girl again. His lungs and leg burned.

  
“Have you seen Andrew?” Dutch's tone was neutral.

  
“Not since he goddamn shot me,” Arthur retorted. "Runned off."

  
“Now is not that time for accusations, Arthur.”

  
“Sure, Dutch,” Arthur dismissed.

  
“What about Trelawny?”

  
“I don’t know.” Arthur winced.

  
“You don’t know?”

  
“He left.” Arthur groped his pained thigh while trying to maintain balance on his horse.

  
“He left?”

  
“Yeah, left.” Arthur groaned. He wished he had anything to ease his discomfort.

  
“You two seem…forget it.”

  
“What, Dutch?” Arthur used his free hand to fumble through one of his saddle bags searching for relief. Arthur found a bottle of whiskey, which he gulped down.

  
“We'll talk more later.”

  
Once finished, Arthur tossed the bottle. His eyes returned to Dutch's back. Despite not answering, his posture seemed normal.

  
“What we runnin’ from, Dutch?”

  
“Ain’t running—surviving—we are surviving, Mr. Morgan—as we always have.”

  
“Whatever you say.”

  
A long moment of silence passed in the darkness.  
“The horses are tired, Dutch.” Arthur stroked Ransom's mane. The horse huffed in response.

  
Before Dutch could answer a loud crack of thunder sounded across the dark landscape. Immediately, it was followed with downpour and another crack. Blue lightening lit up the once dark sky. Arthur felt the horse beneath his legs tense.

  
“You’re all right, boy,” he purred to the animal with a pat on its neck. “Dutch, we gotta get these horses out of the rain.” He coughed. “Don’t want ‘em spookin' neither.”

  
“You were always so good with the horses." Arthur watched Dutch's posture change. “Always so good to them.”

  
“Just doing my part.” Arthur desperately wanted to soak in the praise.

  
“There.” Dutch halted and gestured to an area off the path just as another rumble became a roar that echoed throughout the scenery.

  
“Sure, Dutch.” Arthur continued to run his hand along Ransom's neck who tensed with each barrage.

  
Once the horses were settled under a large grouping of trees, Dutch lifted Arthur down from Ransom.

Next, he began setting up his tent—the only tent. All the while, the squall continued on.

  
Arthur leaned against a tree, keeping his weight off of his injury, and watched Dutch, who despite the precipitation, worked quickly. Arthur could not remember the last time that Dutch had pitched his own tent.

  
“I’ll take watch,” Dutch declared as he finished. “Get some rest, son.”

  
“I don’t really think that’s necessary, Dutch.” Arthur shifted against the tree he leaned on. “Ain’t nobody out here. We ain’t been followed.”

  
“I said rest.” Dutch commanded as he grabbed Arthur roughly and pushed him toward the tent. “Now, rest.”

Without another word, he left Arthur alone and dissolved into the darkness and racket of the storm.

  
Another crack of thunder sounded, which brought Arthur back to the realization that he was utterly soaked to the bone. He settled himself in Dutch's tent as he removed his drenched articles of clothing (excluding his pants and bandages) and then settled onto the bed roll.

  
Arthur pressed his face into the bed roll and inhaled deeply. It smelled of tobacco, wood, and salt. It smelt of Dutch. He sighed then and closed his eyes tightly.

The rain and the familiarity soon lulled him to sleep.

* * *

It must have been late morning when Arthur woke to the crackling sounds of a fire. Before crawling out of the tent, he donned his still damp shirt, which he let hang loose and unbuttoned. His leg screamed at him with each movement. He settled himself near the fire with great difficulty. Dutch was nowhere to be seen.

  
The sky was overcast. No birds sang. The camp was several hundred yards off of the path under some tall trees, which the horses had sought shelter the night before.

  
_Just like old times._

  
“Good Morning, Arthur.” Dutch's sudden presence gave him a start.

  
“’Mornin'.” Arthur stared into the flames.

  
Dutch settled himself near Arthur with a sack across his lap. “Here.” Dutch held out a can to Arthur.

“’M fine.”

  
“Take it.” Dutch gestured again holding the can out to the other man. “Eat. You’re looking skinny.”

  
“Said ‘m fine, Dutch.” Arthur looked at the other then. Dutch seemed somber. He looked down at his thinning torso and quickly buttoned up his shirt.

  
“I need you strong, son.” Dutch tossed the can to him. Arthur caught it. “Need you strong for this last job—this last score.”

  
“Sure.” Arthur studied the can briefly.

  
_Beans. At least it weren’t salted offal._

  
Dutch continued on while Arthur slowly ate.  
“I’m thinking, Arthur, I’m thinking we can hit this train in a few weeks. My source has assured me that it’s easy pickin’s—lots of gold and money on board—lax security and sophisticated folks. It will be as easy as taking candy from a baby.”

  
“There’s always a goddamn train, Dutch.” Arthur discarded the empty can. “Got anything hard in there?”

  
“I’m serious, Arthur.” Dutch tossed him bottle of gin. Arthur opened it and drank it quickly as Dutch eyed him. “As I was saying, this is the last one. Then, we can go wherever we want, son—do whatever we want—be whomever we want.”

  
“Seems like I’ve heard it all before.” Arthur tossed the empty gin bottle over his shoulder. “Seems like we’ve had this talk before, too.”

  
“Déjà vu?”

  
“Huh?”

  
“Never mind.” Dutch set the sack aside and lit a cigar as he looked across to the trees. “This is my—our final move, son. I need you strong and with me on this.”

  
“Things ain’t like they was, Dutch.” Arthur managed to stand then and stifled his urge to cough.

Dutch looked up at him as he puffed on his cigar. “I know,” Dutch sighed. “I know, Arthur, but I got to try—we got to try.”

  
“I don’t know, Dutch.” Arthur turned then.

  
“Where you going?”

  
“To piss. Want a ticket?”

  
In disgust, Dutch waved him off.

  
As he braced himself against a tree, Arthur thought bitterly about Dutch, the train proposition, his sickness, and the idea of freedom. After he finished relieving himself, he made his way back to the campfire area to see that Dutch had already packed everything up and stowed it on their steeds.

  
“Dutch?” Arthur questioned.

  
“I figure it's safe to head back by now.” Dutch approached him and gave Arthur his hat.

  
“Thanks.” Arthur replaced his hat on his greasy head.

  
“Come on, son.” Dutch nodded toward the horses. He helped Arthur to and up onto Ransom.

  
“Got anymore—” Arthur's words were interrupted by Dutch tossing him another bottle of gin. “Thanks,” he grumbled as he caught it.

  
“I ain’t a fan of your new habit, Arthur, but I reckon that leg of yours probably hurts like hell.” Dutch hoisted himself onto his horse.

  
“Yeah.”

  
_My leg. My lungs. My head. My chest. _

  
With that, they were off, at a much slower pace, back to Thieves Landing. The air was crisp and the landscape green and rolling.

  
“When I tell you, you drop back a bit, Arthur.” Dutch looked over to him then as the rode next to each other. “If I tell you to go, you go.”

  
“Why?”

  
“Trust me, Arthur. Trust me.”

  
“I ain’t gettin’ you, Dutch.”

  
“Do as I say.”

  
“Fine, fine.” Arthur stole a look at Dutch who looked perplexed. He felt his own mind swaying as his body did in the saddle. He had consumed one more bottle of gin since he had finished the other two. The pain in his leg and chest was forgotten. He coughed.

  
“Once we are back, I’ll round up a couple of Andrew's boys so we can start planning for this job.”

  
“Sure, Dutch.” Arthur was certain he had slurred his words.

  
The thought of being around Andrew O’Brien sent a chill down Arthur's spine as he knew he wasn’t in any condition to defend himself. He did not protest though—did not want to anger Dutch.

  
When their surroundings began to look familiar to Arthur, Dutch gestured at him to drop back as he continued on a ways a head. Arthur stared at Dutch's back for what seemed like a long while, until he fell from his horse and wretched. He closed his eyes after his body impacted the ground and a coughing fit took him.

  
“Arthur!” He felt hands on him, lifting him up to a standing position, and a large hand rubbed his back. “You all right, son?”

_Dutch_.

  
Arthur cleared his throat. “Fine.” He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “’M fine.” He shrugged Dutch loose.

Then, limped and stumbled the short distance to Ransom. He stood there with fists clenched, unable to mount the horse on his own.

  
Dutch said nothing as his hands were on Arthur again, much more gently this time, as he helped him remount his steed.

  
“Got one stop to make.” Dutch kept a hand on Arthur's knee as he looked up at him. “Then, we'll head back to the hotel. You can rest. Get your strength up.”

  
Dutch's lingering touch burned through Arthur's dirty clothes. “Ok, Dutch.”

  
When Dutch removed his hand Arthur felt cold.

“Come on, Arthur.”

  
They rode on for a while longer when Arthur felt the nausea and headache return. He recognized the exterior of the shack that Trelawny had brought him to on the outskirts of the town…where he had cared for him after he had gotten into that fight. He began to sway again.

  
“Wait here.” Dutch slid from his horse and disappeared into the small dwelling. He emerged just a moment later. A look of annoyance was on his face and in his gait. He glanced at Arthur, who adverted his gaze.

  
“Slippery bastard ain’t here,” Dutch grumbled to himself as he mounted his horse and headed for the hotel with Arthur following a short distance behind.

* * *

The usual shady characters decorated the streets and buildings of Thieves Landing. Arthur felt all eyes on him. The sun would set soon. The air was think and warm.

  
Dutch had stabled the horses and helped Arthur to the room. The door was ajar when they got there. The room appeared to have been ransacked. Dutch sat Arthur down onto the first bed, which he had previously utilized, and briefly rummaged through the mess.

  
“Anything missing, Dutch?”

  
“Didn’t leave them nothing worth taking.”

Dutch plucked a cigar from a pile of debris and tossed his hat onto the nearby coatrack. He shucked off his jacket and vest before settling at the table and lighting the cigar.

  
Arthur shifted uncomfortably on the bed as his head began to clear for the first time that day. He observed Dutch, who had his brows furrowed, deep in thought, staring at nothing in particular. Occasionally, the other man puffed on his cigar. The smoke swirled from his lips with each exhale.

  
After several long moments, Arthur could not stand the silence any longer.

  
“What you thinking?”

  
Dutch sat up straight at Arthur’s interruption and met his gaze with his smoldering brown orbs. Irritation reflected there.

  
“About my gold, my money.” He nearly spat the words as he bit down on the cigar. “And the elusive son of a bitch that made off with it all.” Dutch stood abruptly and paced to the far side of the room and stared out the window.

  
Arthur felt his heart drop as he knew where this conversation was headed. His mouth went dry.

  
“To think I trusted him after he abandoned the gang…see what I do, Arthur? Give folks a second chance and they make a fool of me.” He ran a hand through his black locks and stubbed the cigar against the window pane. “I’ll kill him.”

  
Arthur could not will his mouth to speak as he watched Dutch's aggressive posture.

  
“Unless,” Dutch started as he paced closer to Arthur. “You are scheming with him. I’d be a fool twice.”

  
The accusing tone in Dutch's voice petrified Arthur—made him think back to the time Dutch had snapped the old woman’s neck on Guarma and when be had drowned Angelo Bronte and fed him to the gators.

  
“Are you betraying me, Arthur Morgan?”

  
“Never, Dutch.” Arthur attempted to defuse the situation. “I ain’t scheming with Josiah Trelawny either.”

  
Dutch made a face as he waited for Arthur to continue. The silent anger emitting from the other man was astounding.

  
“He ain’t exactly scheming either.” Arthur looked down at his hands. “It's my fault he’s gone. I’m sorry, Dutch.”

  
“Go on, Arthur.” Dutch's tone remained just as threatening as before. “I implore you.”

  
“We had a falling out is all.” Arthur stifled a cough in his hand. “I’m sure he'll be back,” Arthur offered.

  
“What happened,” Dutch demanded.

  
“I—I don’t know why I do things, Dutch.” Arthur felt the shame creeping up his neck. “I’ve wondered my whole life why I do the things I do, and I ain’t ever figured it out.”

  
“Don’t make me ask again, son.”

  
A threat.

  
“Josiah and I—we…” Arthur sighed as he continued to ring his hands as he thought of the right words—the safe words. “I hurt him, Dutch. He ain’t been nothing but good to me, like you, and I hurt him bad.”

  
“Hurt him how?” Dutch's seemed more intrigued in that moment.

  
Arthur considered lying, but knew his former father figure would know before the lie left his lips. He would rather die on the spot then tell Dutch what he did—what he almost did.

  
“I was in a bad way—drank too much.” Arthur shifted, still unable to meet Dutch's gaze. “That night after the doctor's office, after you…took off, Trelawny was helping me back here and I—snapped, Dutch. It's like that feller I—I killed in Thornberry—I couldn’t stop.”

  
Silent rage returned to Dutch's expression.

  
“I attacked him, Dutch. It ain’t his fault.” Arthur felt the shame burning on his face.

  
Dutch turned from him then. “This wasn’t part of the goddamn plan, Arthur,” he growled. “I—we need that gold—that money to guarantee us the train job—to finally be free of all of this—civilization, law, and horse shit.”

  
“Dutch, I’m—”

  
“I thought you had my back, Arthur. I thought things could be like they was, but clearly I was wrong. You are the same doubting feller—on your own damn program—runned off my two trusted associates.” Dutch paced to the door. He was seething. “You been back just a few days and you’ve already destroyed everything I’ve strived for—everything I’ve built since it all went to hell!”

  
“Dutch…”

  
“Perhaps I should have left you to die on that goddamn rock!” Dutch punctuated his exclamation by slamming the door behind him.

  
The silence was deafening. Arthur knew Dutch could be dramatic at times to make his point, but this time Dutch’s words plunged a knife deep in Arthur's already injured chest.

  
“Dutch.” He breathed the word. “I’m a fool—a stupid fool.”

  
The outburst from his ex-mentor brought Arthur an excruciating moment of clarity. Not only had Dutch not cared, but he also did not love Arthur. If he loved anything about Arthur, it was only what Arthur could do for him—for Dutch. That was evident to him now.

  
_Josiah Trelawny was right._

  
Arthur felt as though his damaged heart had been robbed from his chest by someone who desired no part of it.

  
And that was not even the worst part.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poll: What prior Van der Linde gang member (must be living after the events of RDR2) would you like to make an appearance? 
> 
> Things may seem random at the moment, but I promise everything has a reason behind it that will be explained...eventually. Thanks for reading. Comments and criticisms are welcome!
> 
> Happy Halloween!


	6. Checkmate, Partner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In order to prepare for the train job, Dutch puts Arthur in situations with Andrew and Josiah.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I took so long. I hope you like it.

For the first time in a while, Arthur was alone.

There was no Dutch Van der Line and his overbearing presence.

There was no Josiah Trelawny with his kind, but puzzling nature.

The stillness and silence afforded Arthur some time to reflect.

Finally, Arthur thought of Anna Smith, the girl from Thornberry—the stable owner’s daughter—the girl he had been sweet on.

Of course she had seen the papers. She had to know now that her love interest, Arthur Callahan, was a wanted man. Not only was he a lowly horse thief, but he was also a murderer—a cold blooded murderer. He wondered if she would attend his hanging—if she would be—

_Killed in cold blood like you always told me not to._

His thoughts interrupting his other thoughts had become a normal thing for Arthur as of late. Without the bottle, he found himself unsure, on edge, second guessing everything, loving Dutch and hating not him but his own conflicted feelings.

All he wanted to do was feel numb, but that was exceedingly more difficult the longer he stayed with Dutch. Old wounds that he thought were scabbed over would bleed each time he met the others gaze. He wondered how much more of his life he could spend aching. The ache had to resolve into something...

One thing he was caught up on was that he felt that he should hate Dutch for all of the past betrayals—when he left him and John for dead and how he choose to listen to Micah Bell over those he had known for twenty years rather than just six months, but when the man looked at him with fondness or uttered an approving word, it rendered Arthur defenseless. The raw vulnerability and the powerful emotions that flooded in with it was so terrifying and uncomfortable that Arthur would rather run or die than deal with it head on. On the other hand, he sought after any ounce of affection he could get from the Dutch.

Then, he thought of Josiah Trelawny. The guilt surfaced. Not only had he hurt Trelawny, but also he messed up with Dutch—the gold that Trelawny was charged to fence and Dutch's anger.

_Are you betraying me, Arthur Morgan?_

_This wasn’t part of the goddamn plan, Arthur._

_I thought you had my back, Arthur._

_Arthur. Arthur. Arthur._

An audible groan escaped Arthur's lips as self pity and disgust settled into his chest, which nestled its way alongside the Tuberculosis and heartbreak. He kicked at the dry ground and watched as the dirt bellowed up into the air as he continued to pace along a creek that he had just bathed in.

Still, he had about a two month supply of TB pills that he had not used in his saddle bags. He often pondered the idea of getting up to sanatorium in the north, but could not will himself to act. His symptoms had begun to return more and more as time passed.

* * *

The sun glared down on him from high noon. Fresh sweat trickled down Arthur's skin. The warm and moist air made his lungs itch in irritation.

What Arthur wouldn’t give for cool, dry breeze and a shave.

_And some goddamn whiskey._

Two weeks had passed since all of the drama with Andrew O’Brien and Josiah Trelawny.

It still remained unknown to Arthur as to why Dutch and he had to flee the hotel that night. The state of the room was sure evidence that something had been aloof. Dutch failed to enlighten him and he failed to ask.

Currently, Arthur and Dutch were holding up outside of Thieves Landing just on the edge of a forest. The air was thick and the temperature was warm, which seemed to exacerbate the Tuberculosis. Although it ached, his wounded leg had healed up a substantial amount. His pride had not.

After the hotel room had been ransacked, Dutch decided that they should hold up elsewhere. Since Arthur mucked everything up, per usual, things had been tense between the two. Dutch had not spoken to Arthur much since the hotel.

Dutch was not the apologizing kind.

Arthur was not one to demand it.

After they had set up camp, Dutch had disappeared without a word, which left Arthur to his own devices.

The train job would be soon.

After about another hour of pacing and thinking by the creek, Arthur made his way back to their small camp that consisted of a burnt out fire and Dutch's tent. To Arthur's surprise a second time, Dutch had pitched it himself.

Arthur busied himself with gathering wood and starting a fire. Every so often, he would glance over to where he had Ransom tethered to an overturned tree.

Dutch had been gone since the night prior. 

Once the fire was to Arthur's liking, he sat down, leaned his back against a log, and stared up at the darkening sky.

* * *

Sometime later, Arthur startled awake to the sound of hoof beats. The fire was mostly burnt down and the sky completely black. Out of habit, he reached for the gun at his hip.

“It's me, Arthur.” The voice was thick as it carried through the even thicker air.

_Dutch._

“I’m here,” Arthur responded as he relaxed.

“We need to talk about some things.”

Arthur watched as Dutch's silhouette hitched his horse and made its way over to the campfire.

“What things?” Arthur settled back down on the ground, leaning against the log.

“First, roles.” Dutch stood on the opposite side of the fire.

“Whatchu mean roles?” Arthur looked up at him then. The flames reflected—confirmed the calm anger that laid in Dutch's brown eyes.

“As it seems you have forgot, Arthur Morgan, I’ll only remind you once. I’m in charge here.” Despite the heat and humidity, the icy calmness in Dutch's voice caused goose bumps to pimple Arthur’s skin. “No more doubting or straying from my plan—the plan. You got me, Arthur?”

“O’course, Dutch.” Arthur knew Dutch expected his compliance. “I gotchu.”

“Second, the train job,” he huffed and crossed his arms. “We're still figuring a few of the details, but it will be three days time from tomorrow night. Got some preparation that needs done yet.”

“We?” Arthur sat up and held Dutch's gaze. He had not included Arthur in any of the planning.

“You caught that, huh?” Dutch paused for a moment as if considering something. “That brings me to my third and last; I found Trelawny and O’Brien.” Dutch raised his hands to silence Arthur. “They both agreed to putting things aside and to seeing this job through with us. Regardless of whatever it is that is going or has gone on, we are doing this job together. It's not open for debate.”

“Fine.” Arthur clenched his jaw at the thought of not only having to face Andrew O’Brien, but also Josiah Trelawny.

“I know it ain’t ideal, Arthur.” Dutch's tone softened. “We all been through it—some of us more than others. We just got to stick together until this job is done and then it’s over, son. It will be all over. Then our futures of freedom and prosperity will begin!”

“Sure, Dutch.” Arthur felt sick, again.

“I’ve gotten us through worse.”

“I know.” Arthur clenched his eyes shut. Which worse was he referring to? Arthur did not want to think on any of it. However, there was some truth in his statement, but Dutch had also caused worse unnecessarily.

Dutch had gotten them out after the botched Blackwater job, out of the cold in Colter, away after the Pinkertons had found them at Horseshoe Overlook, Clemens Point, Shady Belle, Lakay, and the most recent being after Beavers Hollow…

But they had lost so many folks along the way. The gang was no more. How could that be considered success?

Arthur found his mind wandering to thoughts of Sean, Lenny, and Hosea. He felt guilty. Maybe he could have done something different and they would all still be alive.

“More than ever...” Dutch still spoke in that softer tone. However, it startled Arthur from his thoughts. And when had Dutch gotten so close? He was now seated next to Arthur, leaned back against the same log, but turned toward Arthur slightly. His dark eyes were intense. “Faith and loyalty, Arthur.”

Arthur stared at him incredulously. As if he needed the reminder. “I know.” Those two words compounded the sickness he felt in his gut.

_Have some goddamn faith!_

_Be loyal to what matters._

“You all right, son?” Dutch must have noticed Arthur’s mental groping and turmoil. He placed a hand on Arthur’s shoulder.

“Fine.” Arthur tensed at the touch, but when it lingered, he found himself closing his eyes. “’M fine.”

“You sure?”

Arthur hesitated. “Yeah.”

A moment later, a coughing fit took him. He leaned forward with his head between his knees as the coughs continued to ravage his lungs. All the while, there was a heavy hand rubbing his back.

“I know you ain’t doing too good,” Dutch admitted. His voice cracked so slight. Arthur panicked. Did he know about the TB? He continued to rub Arthur's back even after the coughing subsided.

The kindness and concern, if it were real, had Arthur rethinking his previous moment of clarity. Maybe Trelawny was wrong. Maybe he did mean more to Dutch than just what he could do for him. Or maybe this was Dutch playing him into compliance. Maybe he was a fool still, but it was difficult—almost painful to even think of defying Dutch or doing something to displease him when Arthur held onto the tiniest sliver that there was or could be something real between them.

On the other hand, were all of the betrayals--Dutch's dishonorable moments. The one that haunted Arthur the most was at Cornwall Oil. Arthur was nearly killed and Dutch just ran away.

_You...you ran away._

_I did no such thing. Don't be a fool._

But in that current moment, Dutch's soothing touch almost had him melting away on the spot until it abruptly left him cold.

“I got some planning to do.” The softness was gone. All business once more.

“Sure.” The sick feeling Arthur felt eased. He rose slowly from where he sat.

“Oh, and Arthur.”

“Yeah, Dutch?”

There was a long pause. “I know you’re having a tough time with things, but I’m serious about this job Arthur.” He paused again. “Trust me. That’s all I ask is that you trust me and have a little faith. We will get through this. Together.”

“Sure.”

* * *

The next morning came. That meant the train job was only three days away. Dutch had still not bothered to tell Arthur any details about much. Arthur accepted it. Dutch always had his reasons.

By the time they had packed up their camp, it was early afternoon. The two had rode back into Thieves Landing and hitched their horses outside the smaller of the two saloons. Arthur followed Dutch inside. Upon entering, he felt immediately sick to his stomach.

“Are you goddamn—"

Dutch shot him a look; a warning.

“Fine, fine, but I ain’t happy about this.”

“This ain’t about your happiness,” Dutch snapped. “It’s about us making money—our last score. Have some goddamn faith.”

Arthur huffed as he threw himself down across from Andrew O’Brien and two men he did not know. Dutch took a seat next to Arthur.

“Boys,” Dutch greeted cheerfully. “Let’s talk money.”

The saloon was moderately busy. The group of outlaws were seated at a table in the far back of the establishment. A working girl came by offering coffee and whiskey. Arthur quickly indulged in the latter while Dutch conversed with the other three men.

Arthur paid no attention as he drank. He caught O’Brien's angry gaze once, but quickly averted his eyes elsewhere. Arthur caught himself staring at Dutch's mouth while he spoke, but he could not hear the words he uttered. His brain felt as though it was mush. His chest felt tight.

“My sincerest apologies for my tardiness, gentlemen,” the familiar jumble of an English and Midwestern accent startled Arthur. “Mr. O’Malley.” Trelawny sat down on the other side of Dutch, which obscured him from Arthur's view.

“Mr. Trelawny,” Dutch responded and clapped the man on his shoulder. “How goes the gold?”

“I hate to be the bearer of bad news. That said, I’m terribly sorry, Aiden, but the buyer has become quite…difficult.”

“Hm.” Dutch lit a cigar. “Probably needs some motivation.” He leaned back and puffed leisurely. “Now, take Arthur here. Instilling motivation is one if his specialties.”

Arthur could have died on the spot. He assumed Trelawny could, too.

“Go now and meet back up with us once it’s resolved.”

“Dutch,” Arthur whispered as he leaned to Dutch's ear as he stood. “I ain't—”

“Sure you are,” Dutch said with a forced smile. “Go. Now. We will talk later.”

With a groan and feeling he had no other choice, Arthur followed Trelawny to their horses. They both mounted without a word. Trelawny started down the road and Arthur followed at what he considered a safe distance.

The shame and humiliation was still fresh. Arthur felt it on his face as he continued to follow Trelawny. He found it impossible to even look at the man's back.

They rode on for a long while until they came to what looked to be the largest stable he had ever seen that was surrounded by a few outbuildings, a fence, and a big house. Trelawny stopped a ways off and reigned in his horse. Arthur halted Ransom just next to him. Several moments passed as Arthur fought for his voice.

“What’s the plan, Jos—Mr. Trelawny?” Arthur felt dirty and his head just a tad dizzy from his indulgence in the saloon. There was a long pause. Arthur observed several rifle toting men on the property.

“The plan, Mr. Morgan, is for you to follow my lead and if it goes south…well you know.” He voice drifted off.

“Who’s the mark?”

“A French sir by the name of Delacroix, a large grumpy fellow, who runs a tight ship.” Trelawny dismounted and kept his gaze elsewhere. “Came over on a vessel within the last year, acts as a fence specifically for precious metals, and launders his profits into his purebred and trophy horse lines. Apparently, he brings the stallions over from Europe to breed. It's quite lucrative, I’ve been told.”

“Anything else I need to know?” Arthur dismounted, too and went to hitch his horse, Ransom, to a nearby tree.

“Not at the moment. Better not tie them down.” Trelawny looked at Arthur then. His eyes were so serious. “For if it goes south.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” Arthur held his gaze while he double checked and then holstered his cattleman revolver.

Trelawny broke eye contact and began walking toward the ranch house. “Come, Mr. Morgan.”

“Ain’t you forgettin’ something?” Arthur jogged (limped) to catch up. “Where’s the gold?”

“Already in Mister Delacroix's possession,” Trelawny slowed his pace a bit and tucked his cane under his arm. “I’d done dealings with him on a small scale in the last few weeks, testing the waters, and never had any trouble…until well now.”

At a distance, two armed men were keeping pace with Trelawny and Arthur as they approached. Once they got to the main ranch house, Trelawny knocked on the door while Arthur stared down the armed men. After some back and forth, with another man, a maid ushered them back to Delacroix’s home office.

The large Frenchman snapped his eyes up and looked from Arthur to Trelawny in what appeared to be disgust. Previous to their interruption, he had appeared to have been sorting through a pile of bonds, which he discarded into a drawer. He dismissed the armed men in some words that Arthur did not understand.

“Monsieur Delacroix, bonjour,” Trelawny greeted with flawless finesse. “My associate and I are here to wrap up unfinished business.” He moved closer to the desk while Arthur hung back by the entryway.

“Monsieur Trelawny, our business est terminée—finished. You are not to show your face around here. Adieu."

While Trelawny and Delacroix went back and forth, Arthur observed the dog of a man, who literally had jowls. His mass was large, fat, finely dressed in all green, and balding with unkind eyes. Arthur found his accent displeasing to say the least.

“I come to you as a gentleman and businessman, monsieur.” Trelawny stepped closer to the desk and leaned on his cane. “Please don’t think of this as impolite, as I assure you I am not rude. However, I must insist that you pay me for the gold in your possession.”

“Non, non.” Delacroix shook his head. “I don’t think I will." He sat back and stared at the two men in front of him.

“Monsieur, please.”

“You ripped me off. You may leave alive. Consider that your payment. Now, adieu!”

Arthur shot Trelawny a look to which Trelawny shrugged.

“Hey, feller,” Arthur growled as he stepped forward as Trelawny stepped back. “I can guarantee paying us will be much better for you health."

“My friend makes a good point, Monsieur,” Trelawny quipped.

A tense moment passed as the Frenchman's eyes darted from Trelawny to Arthur. “Non, I don’t think so. You both will leave now.”

“We ain’t leaving till you give us the gold or pay up.” Arthur stared at the Frenchman intently. "Don't do anything stupid."

As if on cue, Delacroix’s hand blurred as he reached for something under the desk.

Without hesitation, Arthur put a hole in Delacroix’s forehead. The blast hung in the air.

“Goddamn it!” Arthur cursed as he holstered his pistol and pulled Trelawny to his feet and pushed him toward the desk. “Find the gold and anything else you can. Quick!”

“Of course, of course.” Trelawny’s voice trembled a bit as he began searching the desk drawers. "My god! He was reaching for a gun."

“I know. Them guards will be on us.” Arthur searched the body and cabinets, pocketing everything of value. Trelawny did the same. “Here.” Arthur found the gold and a large stash of cash in a chest.

“Quite the hoard,” Trelawny exclaimed as he and Arthur stuffed its contents into three large bags they found within the room.

“Monsieur Delacroix?” An armed man burst into the office. Arthur shot him, too.

“Hurry up, Josiah.” Arthur leaned against the door frame and stared down the hallway, pistol drawn and cocked. “Gonna be more of ‘em.”

“Let us hasten our departure then, Mr. Morgan.”

Arthur wore two of the large bags opposite across his body. He cursed at how heavy they were and how weak he felt. His freshly healing leg stressed and complained under the extra weight. Trelawny donned the third in a similar fashion.

“Stay low and behind me,” Arthur instructed as he moved into the hallway.

“All right.”

Before reaching the yard, Arthur made quick work of several more men in the house and killed three more outside. They whistled for their horses as he scanned the locality for more armed men.

After Trelawny was settled on his horse, Arthur secured all three bags to the other's saddle. An idea flickered in his mind as he eyed the barn.

“Fine horses you said.”

“I did.” Trelawny eyed him.

“You go on ahead.” Arthur started walking toward the stable building. “I’ll meet you shortly.”

“Very well,” Trelawny responded. “Come by that little dwelling on the outskirts.”

“Ok.”

* * *

“Goddamn, Arthur Morgan!” Dutch's voice thundered. He gestured for Arthur to join him on the small porch. “Sit with me, son.”

Arthur nodded in response and obeyed. He had secured his horse near the others two on the opposite side of the small dwelling. He rubbed the back of his neck as he looked up at the sky. The sun would be setting soon.

“If I’d have known how effective Josiah and you'd have been, I would have sent you off together on countless jobs of the kind years ago!” Dutch's voice cracked as he exclaimed. “You’ve done well!”

Arthur could not remember that last time he had seen Dutch in such high spirits or the last time he had praised him for a job well done. Clad in a white shirt rolled to his elbows and gray pants, Dutch sat casually in a worn chair with his boots propped up on the porch railing. A cigar was between his teeth. He smiled at Arthur, which unnerved him.

“My son!” Dutch gestured to the chair next to him. “My brother, have a seat.”

“Dutch,” Arthur greeted as he obliged.

“I could not have anticipated this. You brought back over $4,000 in gold and another $5,000 in bonds.” Dutch's words were slow, but his mood remained contented. He ran a hand through his almost shoulder length hair and stared off the porch and into the distance. “Everything is coming together, Arthur, just as I have planned.”

“Mhm.” Arthur stared at Dutch's bearded profile in the dimming light. “Sure.”

“I wished you see that I’m right.” He lit a second cigar and offered it to Arthur who declined. “One last job, Arthur, and we are done!”

“I’ll believe it when I see it.” He stared out at the sinking sun. The sky was turning pink against the darkness.

“Of course you will.” Dutch faltered. “See it, I mean. You’ll be here to see it.” Dutch frowned as he looked at Arthur.

_Dutch knew._

Arthur’s stiffened. An overwhelming feeling of suffocation and panic crashed into his chest. Quickly, he made a move to leave.

“Arthur.”

His name caught him at the edge of the porch with shoulders raised, fists clenched, and eyes screwed shut. His chest felt immensely heavy.

“Arthur,” Dutch repeated.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Arthur managed in his distress. A tickle in his throat threatened to become something more.

“I think we should.”

"Please, Dutch," Arthur pleaded softly. "It's not a good time for it."

"There ain't ever going to be a good time, son." He heard the creaking of wood followed by Dutch's footsteps on the porch. "Go speak to Trelawny about tomorrow's agenda. He's inside."

"Ok." Thankful for the dismissal, Arthur moved toward the door to the small dwelling.

"If you change your mind, Arthur..." Dutch let his voice trail off.

"I know, I know."

* * *

"Good evening, Mr. Morgan," Trelawny greeted dryly. He sat in a tattered arm chair within the small living area. The lighting was dim save for several small lanterns scattered about. He peered at Arthur over a newspaper.

"Mr. Trelawny." Arthur sat himself down adjacent from the other on a small loveseat in similar condition. "Dutch said to talk to you."

"Indeed."After a moment, Trelawny set the paper aside and settled his attention on Arthur.

"So?" Arthur watched the other man's brow crease as he crossed his arms.

"Would you mind accompanying me on a short jaunt?" The magician's eyes glanced about before settling back on Arthur, who understood his reasoning of avoiding any listening ears.

"'Course."

Soon thereafter, Arthur followed Trelawny outside, past Dutch, and continued to walk about ten minutes behind the house, which led into a sparse grove of trees, rocks, and bushes. The moon illuminated the way as they navigated through the gloom.

"Seeing as we may be spending quite some time together over the next few days, I figured it best to clear the air." Trelawny's tone was soft, yet serious. He leaned his back against a tree.

"Ok." Arthur settled himself against a rock with arms crossed. He felt anxiety creep in as did the returning shame. 

"Like I've said before, I don't know the half of it, but I'd like to venture that I might know some of it." Trelawny paused and studied Arthur with cautious eyes.

"What you gettin' at?" Arthur's face grew warm.

"Where to start?" Trelawny shook his head and sighed. "More recently you're not well for one--haven't been for some time now. Then, there's that altercation with Mr. O'Brien and your forever complicated and strained relationship with Mr. Van der Linde. On top of it all, we have this train job in the works."

"You ain't wrong." Arthur sighed, too. "But that don't excuse my behavior and I know it don't make it better, but I'm sorry, Trelawny."

"In time, I'll forgive you." Trelawny smiled so slight then frowned. "I figure you'll have a harder time forgiving yourself."

"I guess." Arthur rubbed his neck and looked away.

"Regardless, tomorrow you and I are going to make a quick trip to the next town over."

"For?" Arthur looked back to the other who's posture had since relaxed.

"You're to play a dashingly rich gentleman just a you have before, but on the train this time." Trelawny smiled, again. "That being said, Dutch has tasked me with making sure you are up to snuff."

* * *

When Arthur returned to the house, Dutch was still awake, but had since moved to the living area. He occupied the chair that Trelawny had earlier. He looked up from his book when Arthur entered the room.

"You ever read The Count of Monte Cristo, Arthur?"

"No."

"I'm not surprised." Dutch shut the book and set it aside. "Have you changed your mind?"

"No." Arthur took up space on the love seat.

"What's on your mind?"

"This job." Arthur removed his hat.

"Everything will be fine, Arthur."

"Where's O'Brien?"

"He and his boys are staying in town."

"Good." Relief washed over Arthur.

"Once you and Trelawny get back tomorrow, you and O'Brien are going to go sit on the train station just south of here for a while. Learn the shifts for the conductors and guards. Be sure to acquire a few of the uniforms."

"Ok."

"While you two are doing that, Trelawny and I will be securing the tickets." Dutch stood and offered his hand to Arthur, who took it. He allowed Dutch to pull him up into a handshake. "We're going to be ok, Arthur."

"I know." Arthur grasped Dutch's hand firmly.

"I need you to believe that." Dutch's stare was intense. "Have faith in me--in us. We are going to be ok." He released Arthur's hand and moved toward the other room. "Goodnight, son."

Desperately, Arthur hoped everything would go smoothly with this supposed last job, but he could not shake the sinking feeling that something dastardly would occur.

Especially with O'Brien and his men involved...

* * *

"This one, Josiah?" Arthur opened the changing room door to present what he was certain to be the thirtieth suit he had tried on.

"No." Trelawny stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Not quite. Try another."

"I swear, Josiah, this is the last goddamn one." A moment later, Arthur called the other man into the dressing room with him. "Whatchu think?"

"Hmmm." Trelawny closed the door and stepped close to him as he eyed the black suit.

"We been here for nearly three goddamn hours!" Arthur held up his arms while Trelawny continued his inspection in the tiny space. "I don't get why it matters so much."

"As always, it's the details--imperative that you look the part." Trelawny tugged on the fabric here and there. "You're right, Arthur. This one will do."

"About damn time." Arthur moved to undo the buttons.

"Not yet," Trelawny stilled Arthur's hands at the front of the suit jacket with his own. "We still have the matter of the vest and tie."

"Josiah..." Arthur tensed at the contact and turned his head away. Silently, he cursed himself for the heat that crept up his neck.

"What I said before still stands, you know," Josiah said softly. The small space and the closeness of Trelawny made Arthur feel the need to run. "I'd be honored to take care of you, Arthur."

"Thanks," Arthur managed in his distress. He inhaled sharply. Trelawny even smelled fancy; some type of strong spice and mint.

"Would you look at me for a moment?" Trelawny's hands still held Arthur's at the front of his suit. Arthur obliged sheepishly. Trelawny's stare was intense, searching.

"Josiah," Arthur grunted.

"Shhhh." The other man quieted him. "Let me look at you a moment."

"Ain't much to look at." Arthur shook his head and looked away.

"Forgive me, Arthur, but that is where you are so incredibly and absolutely mistaken." Trelawny's removed his hands from Arthur's and gently smoothed the lapels of Arthur's jacket before he exited the changing room.

"Goddamn," Arthur breathed to himself. He ran a hand through his hair, which recently had been cut into a short swept back fade. "Jesus Christ." 

A moment later, Trelawny returned with a dark red vest and a black and red puff tie. Wordlessly, he helped Arthur into the vest and buttoned up the front.

"I must say that red does suit you quite well."

"Mhm," was all Arthur could muster in response. The closeness and the sudden warmth within the small space was getting to be too much. Trelawny seemed unaffected by it.

"Here." Trelawny lifted Arthur's collar and began tying the puff tie around the other's neck with expert fingers. "If I do say so myself, dear boy, you look rather dashing." His hands lingered on Arthur's lapels. "Quite dashing indeed."

The term of endearment was back, but it did not ease Arthur's suffering. He was utterly overwhelmed.

"Josiah," he sighed and closed his eyes, unable to look at the other man for a moment.

"Yes, Arthur?" Trelawny's thumbs rubbed over the material at Arthur's chest.

There was a long pause as Arthur contemplated what he wished to say. Just as he opened his mouth to speak, Trelawny pressed his lips to the corner of Arthur's mouth. Shocked and wide-eyed, Arthur quickly pushed past the other, ignored the tailor's shouts, and exited the shop.

* * *

It was late afternoon.

“Yer move, pretty boy,” Andrew taunted. A know-it-all smirk on his average, bearded face as they sat just outside the train station to the south of Thieves Landing.

“Whatever you say,” Arthur grumbled as he shoved one of his rooks forward in contempt. He was dressed in a fresh outfit: a blue work shirt, black jeans, and a dark cowboy hat.

“Wait for it.” Andrew stared at the board thoughtfully before reaching forward and dramatically knocking Arthur's king over with his knight. “Checkmate, partner.”

“We ain’t playing for real, O’Brien.” Arthur crossed his arms. “We ain’t partners neither.”

“We are right now.” O'Brien smirked again.

“Not really. We ain’t.”

“We’re in the middle of a nice little three-way; you an' me an' Aiden.” The corners of Andrew's lips curled upward. “Competing for the top spot—for ol’Aiden--I mean Dutchy's praise an' affections. That’s his real name ain’t it? Well, at least one of us is. And it. Ain’t. Me.”

“You talk this much to Dutch during a stakeout?” It took every ounce of self control that Arthur had to not reach out and strangle the other man on the spot.

“Usually more. Sometimes we share one of those fine cigars of his and he treats me mighty proper.” His tone of voice made Arthur sick.

“That’s cute."

“You know what, partner? I’ve been doin' these type o' jobs some would say, Dutch for example, amazing—the best for a while now. I always make sure we get ‘er done an' get paid.”

“What’s your point?”

“Ever since you showed up, you been grumpy as hell and lookin’ at Dutchy some type of way an' then you’re glarin' at me--causin' all kinds of trouble among our little team--upsettin' the way things been runnin'. I get it. Look, I’m sorry I shot ya. Really, I am. Well, I’m not, but Aiden said I should be so we can get this shit job done and be on our own ways. Anyways, I’m just curious about why you be havin' stink eye all the damn time. Lighten up, Morgan. It was just your leg an' a bit of yer pride. It ain't the end of the world.”

“I don’t like you.”

“Is this is about my haircut?" O'Brien gestured to his untamed brown locks under his dark hat. "I know it ain't fancy like yours, but if it is, this needs to stop."

“It’s not about your hair." Arthur shook his head in annoyance. "It’s just you and whatever it is you stand for.”

“So you’re sayin' it’s 'bout my character? You questionin' my intentions?”

“Yeah, something like that.” Arthur held up his hand to silence Andrew. He watched as the two on shift conductors finished their turnover with their replacements. "You follow them and see if you can talk them out of their uniforms. Keep it quiet and no killin'."

"Yeah, yeah." Andrew did as he was told.

Arthur sat a moment longer before he rose and followed the now on shift conductors. According to Trelawny, there were to have a meeting with several of the guards that would be on the train they were to rob. Once the brief meeting was over, Arthur followed one of the to be guards to a somewhat secluded area. After donning his black bandana and pulling his gun, he convinced the man out of all of his possessions, including his clothing with the exception of the man's union suit.

Just as Arthur had finished gathering the man's items, O'Brien showed up and proceeded to break the guardsman's arm. The crack of bone and the shrill scream was sickening. O'Brien took off with Arthur at his heels.

"What the hell was that?" Arthur demanded as they both mounted their horses.

"Had ta' make sure he can't be workin' tomorrow," O'Brien answered nonchalantly.

"You didn't have to do that," Arthur accused as they began their trek back to the small dwelling in Thieves Landing.

The late afternoon sun was fading.

"I didn't kill 'em, did I?" O'Brien sneered. "Can't nothin' make you happy."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? Teehee.


	7. Hey, Cowpoke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The train job commences. Arthur drinks some whiskey and runs into some familiar faces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I'm sorry to take so long!

Almost evening.

Nearly time.

Really, Arthur had done his best to clear his mind, but the hopeless organ in his chest remained rambunctious.

Between Dutch, Josiah, and Andrew…he was not certain who was worse.

Arthur stood in front of a worn mirror observing his newly shaved mug. Already, he had donned his suit and applied pomade.

"You’re a sad man, Arthur Morgan," he whispered to himself. Bloodshot cobalt eyes bordered by dark circles stared back at him. "Goddamn tragedy."

Exhaustion plagued him as he fumbled with securing the tie around his neck. The memory of Trelawny made it a difficult chore. He could almost feel the light pressure of Josiah's lips on the corner of his. Arthur was not certain of his feelings, but that instance had felt like betrayal.

"Arthur Morgan!" The boisterous sound startled him. So did the image of the man in the reflection.

The familiarity of the sight stole Arthur's air from his irritated lungs. From the black vest with gold chains, to the matching suit with red cloth in the upper jacket pocket, the black hat, and the rings adorning the thick fingers...

This was Dutch.

Really Dutch.

The closely cropped beard had been replaced with the trademark sideburns, mustache, and soul patch. His hair hung at a much more manageable length, slicked back just as Arthur's was.

Dutch Van der Linde.

Mr. Van der Linde.

The man with the plan.

That commanded loyalty.

And preached faith.

A sense of anxiety and longing filled Arthur's gut.

The last time he had seen thee Dutch Van der Linde was within the mess in Beaver Hallow.

_Rat!_

"Come here, son." Dutch leaned lazily in the doorway holding Arthur's gaze in the mirror.

Before complying, Arthur took a moment to compose himself as best as he was able. He stifled a cough with the back of his hand.

"Mr. Trelawny by no means disappoints does he? Black and red," Dutch mused as he reached out to right Arthur's tie."A man after my own heart." He smiled.

_And mine._

"Sure." Arthur found himself staring at Dutch's mouth and wondered. He adverted his eyes as a tinge of cherry crept to his cheeks.

"Let's go, Mr. Morgan!" Arthur flinched as Dutch clapped him roughly on the shoulder.

"Gentlemen!" The authoritative pitch addressed his small audience. Dutch sauntered out of the dwelling with his arms stretched wide. Arthur stayed back what he considered a safe distance and observed the others as Dutch did what he did best...words Arthur had heard countless times before.

Andrew O'Brien was clad in a guard uniform and a smug look. His other two boys donned the conductor outfits. Arthur mused that they were quite ugly fellers. Trelawny was smartly dressed as ever in a grey suit jacket, yellow vest, and light blue pants with his mustache and hair styled perfectly. All of their attention was on Dutch.

Except Trelawny.

Goddamned Trelawny.

The magician.

The conman.

The thoughtful son of a bitch.

His attention was riveted on Arthur.

Green eyes staring.

Searching.

Apologetically.

"Forgive me," Trelawny mouthed as he placed his hand on his breast pocket.

"This is it, gentlemen!" Dutch's voice cracked so slight. "These rich folks ain't going to know what hit them.” He paused and glanced at Arthur. “We are all seekers of freedom here and by god we shall have it!"

Shortly thereafter, the men dispersed. The plan was for Andrew and his boys to go on ahead and take the place of the guard and conductors at the normal shift change. Arthur would board at the same station as a passenger. Under the cover of complete darkness, Dutch would board on his own at the next station a few hours later. Trelawny would be poised further down the route the with the means to make a getaway.

* * *

The sky was pink.

Arthur shifted uncomfortably in his suit. No matter how many times he had been through the routine, it never felt right, and was goddamn uncomfortable.

The sense of trepidation returned.

They were still wanted men.

Well, at least Dutch and he.

Trelawny _claimed_ he could not return to Saint Denis. No matter how much Arthur grew to like the man, he still had a hard time trusting him.

Arthur had no idea about O'Brien and his two men.

The more he thought about it, they—the gang had never robbed a train at night. It never made sense as the night trains rarely had more than a few people aboard.

However, Trelawny informed Dutch, who informed Arthur that this train had a vault, overnight quarters, a bar, and card table area for the high society folk traveling far and wide.

Something still felt off.

Arthur felt off.

In an attempt to ground himself, he ran his hands over the leather bound suitcase in his lap that Dutch had told him not to open.

If Arthur ever needed a drink, now was the time.

"All aboard!"

* * *

Like most of his life, Arthur felt out of place.

According to Trelawny, the train had a upper class section of cars and a lesser class further to the back. Arthur was to wait in the bar car between them both.

"Whiskey." Arthur ordered at the bar. A dapper tender served him. He threw the shot back and ordered a second. A mixture of smoke irritated his lungs.

The car was exquisitely decorated in deep colors, gold, and dark wood.

The light was low.

It was not crowded with the exception of four other bodies seated at the bar--men dressed similar to him, who conversed amongst each other.

As he continued to indulge, Arthur lent an ear to the conversation around him. The group of men seemed to be in a dick swinging contest about who owned the more prime real estate back east and who owned the most pristine shares of stake in railroad and bank. As his anxiety eased, Arthur allowed himself to relax as he swirled his third glass.

"Well, I was in the Army." Arthur nearly spit out his whiskey—ended up choking it down with a few strangled coughs.

_Goddamn it._

That dumb and drunken drawl, he would recognize anywhere. The words were meant to impress and brag, but seemed to miss there mark, which was confirmed by the lack of impression on the other sirs' faces.

Still shocked, Arthur turned on his stool and stared at the man not even five feet away. The big bearded fellow was clad in a distasteful blue and pink suit that seemed a bit too large, a bit too ridiculous. Oddest of all was that the large outlaw had not even tried to alter his appearance…much like Dutch now.

How Arthur had overlooked him upon entry to the bar car, he did not know. Perhaps it was his nerves and then his indulgence.

“But what do you do _now_?” One of the other men asked. Challenging him to validate his right to be among the finely dressed and elite. Arthur felt a sudden familiarity to the way this conversation was headed.

“Well, uh, I-I-I'm, um, in between jobs right now…” Arthur watched as confusion was replaced by anger. This whole thing could go sideways real quick. “You better watch your damn--"

“Hey, mister,” Arthur quickly intervened from where he sat, holding up his glass. “I don’t know you, but I think it’s mighty patriotic of you to have enlisted and defended our freedoms. Don’t you think, fellers? Let me buy you a drink and you could tell us some war stories.”

The few other men looked between the two, scoffed, and dismissed themselves quickly enough.

Unexpectedly, Arthur felt elated.

“If it ain’t Marion herself!” Arthur chuckled again. He gestured for the tender to refill his glass and to place another beer in front of the other. “How you been, Bill?”

“You ain’t supposed to be here.” Obviously still riled, Williamson's voice was thick and accusing. “It's Bob now.”

“Is that right?” Arthur raised a brow. “Bob, huh?”

“Bob Roberts.” Bill confirmed. A scowl remained on his face.

“Bob Roberts! Sure as shit?” Arthur slapped his knee as he laughed and coughed and laughed. “Of all of the choices, Bill, you chose that silly name?

“What’s it to you anyways?” Bill took a long swig from his beer.

“It ain’t, Bill—Bob. It ain’t nothing.” Arthur took a moment to compose himself. His head felt a bit light. Last thing he needed was a drunken brawl with Bill Williamson in the middle of the train job. “I’m sorry, Bob. How are you gettin' on these days?”

“Horse shit, Morgan. It’s all been horse shit. I was with that greaser Javier at first, but we…fought and everybody ran off and left poor ol’ Bill—I mean Bob to fend for himself. I didn’t do to good on my own. Tried to…” He dropped his voice a bit lower. “Tried to rob some folk on the roads, but they robbed me instead. Me! Happened three times!” Bill stood quickly and chugged down the rest of his beer. He expression changed to be even more angry. “You ain’t supposed to be here.”

“Bob--?”

“If I was you, I’d think about falling off this train.” With that, Williamson staggered out of the car and left Arthur alone save for the bar keep.

“Strange fellow, that one,” the bar tender mused as he polished a glass.

“Sure is.” Arthur agreed. His head buzzed as he thought of the coincidence of seeing Bill Williamson of all people on this train. He surely needed to drink away that encounter. “’Nother whiskey, please.”

* * *

Several more whiskeys later…

“Mr. Kilgore.” He felt a presence beside him. A heavy hand rested on his shoulder.

_Dutch._

“Hey.” Arthur found himself dragging out the vowel sound as he turned and faced Dutch Van der Linde. The world seemed to tremble just a bit. “Want a drink, Duh--"

“We’re done here.” His voice was a harsh whisper and his stare intense. The grip on his shoulder tightened. Arthur liked the way his brow furrowed and how the lines of his face held disdain.

“Fine, fine.” Arthur allowed Dutch to usher him away from the bar car, through several more seating areas, and into a sleeping quarter.

The area was dark until Dutch lit a small lantern, secured the door, and set the suitcase Arthur had been carrying aside.

“You’re drunk,” Dutch accused as he leaned back against the door. His hat shadowed the upper part of his face.

Arthur shrugged and sat down on one of the two bunks. He watched as the flicker from the small light casted shadows on Dutch's face.

“This wasn’t the plan, Arthur.”

“What you want me to say, Dutch?” Arthur shook his head, but regretted it.

Dutch was silent.

“Saw Bob,” Arthur offered.

“Who?” Dutch crossed his arms.

“Bill, Dutch. Williamson’s here.”

Dutch was silent again for a moment.

“Did you see…anyone else?”

“No.” Arthur shook his head. “Was I supposed to?”

“I’m going to find Andrew. Stay put.”

* * *

A little while later...

“You moron,” Arthur mumbled to himself as he stood and staggered a bit. He rubbed his eyes. “Goddamn moron.”

A sudden overwhelming pressure begged for release.

“Shit.”

Hesitantly, Arthur opened the door. He looked both ways and saw no one. The cars all seemed like dark tunnels as he moved between them. He stumbled into the latrine, thankful it was empty as well.

Arthur sighed as he relieved himself. Just as he dipped his hands in the wash basin, a voice caught him off guard. He leaned his ear against the wall.

“Black Lung's here? You sure, Bill?”

Arthur’s blood ran cold.

“Of course I’m sure, ya idiot.”

There was a thud and a muffled cry of pain. Arthur winced. He almost felt sorry for Bill. Almost.

“You drunk, Bill? I saw that son of a bitch die on the ridge with my own two eyes.”

“He bought me a beer...with his own…two eyes.”

“You’re a goddamn idiot.” There was a pause. “Did you find out why he’s here?”

“No.”

“You’re useless. Already got me an ally here. Don’t even know why I brought you along.” There was another pause and some shuffling sounds. “Morgan alone at least?”

“Think so.”

“Interesting. Come on, fat boy.”

Now Bob Robert’s, then Bill Williamson’s words echoed inside his skull.

_You ain’t supposed to be here._

_If I was you, I’d think about falling off this train._

Now, it seemed to make sense. Perhaps that was Bill’s way of warning him.

Arthur stayed in the latrine until the pair of footsteps faded completely. His heart was beating erratically and all he wanted was Dutch. With haste, he made his way back to the sleeping quarters, but Dutch had not yet returned.

“Goddamn it!” Arthur cursed. The effects of the whiskey still swam in his blood. “Goddamn, fool.” He raked his hands through his hair. Desperately, he needed to find Dutch.

As quietly as he could, he stumbled through the cars until he nearly ran into one of Andrew O'Brien's men.

“Watch it.”

“Where’s Dutch?”

“Who?”

Arthur racked his brain as he grabbed the other man's jacket in his fists. “Uh, Aiden. Aiden O'Malley. Where is he?”

“I ain’t seen ‘em.”

Arthur cursed and released the man and continued to stalk through the next few cars heading toward the front of the train.

“Aiden, we ain’t got a choice in it no more!”

“That ain’t the plan, Andrew!”

Arthur burst into the vault car.

“Dutch, we got a problem.”

“Not now, Arthur.” Dutch waved him off and looked back to Andrew and his other man. “Now. Andrew we ain’t straying from--"

“Micah's here!” Arthur quickly stepped up to where the others were standing near the vault, in the dimly lit car.

“Are you sure, Arthur?”

“Sure as a bullet to the head.”

Dutch looked between Andrew and Arthur. His expression was bizarre.

“Can I talk to you?” Arthur crossed his arms and glared at Andrew. “Alone.”

“I don’t see why…” Dutch placed a hand on his hip as he stared at Arthur.

“Pretty boy, ya ‘ave yer talk with Aiden here. I ain’t offended. ‘Pose it’s ‘bout time I make my rounds anyway.” Andrew slung his rifle over his shoulder, gestured a two fingered salute at Dutch, and departed the car with the other not too far behind him.

“Say your piece, Mr. Morgan.” Dutch's voice was dry with irritation.

“Micah and Bill is here, Dutch. Bill ain’t worryin’ me, but Micah knows. He has an accomplice aboard.” Arthur rested his hands where he gun belt would have been if he had it. “I don’t like this.”

Dutch sighed and paced away a bit.

Arthur continued. “The way I figure it, me an’ you ain’t got guns, Dutch. O’Brien and his boys do. Seein’ as Andrew and his replaced the night crew, there ain’t too many options for accomplices.”

The elder man remained silent, but kept his back to Arthur with his hands on his hips.

“Dutch.” Arthur tried as he stared at his silhouette. “Say something.”

Dutch was slow to respond. “Think you can get these safes open?”

“Sure, but what you think about what I said?”

Silence.

“Dutch!”

“I—I don’t know.” His words were measured and glum.

Arthur's eyes blew wide at that admission. Never had he heard those words come out of his mouth. Dutch was always so sure about everything. The way he said it reminded Arthur of how Dutch had spoke after the trolley incident when he had taken a hard blow to the head.

It made his chest ache.

“Well, you got to know, Dutch.”

More silence.

Arthur knew he needed to get to him—spur him to word or action—before everything went to hell.

“Goddamn it, Dutch!” Arthur stepped up behind him and laid his hand on Dutch's shoulder. He squeezed and felt the hard muscles beneath his grasp. “You know I believe in you, right? Got more than enough faith for the both of us.”

Dutch moved from Arthur's touch and turned to face him with an even stranger look on his features. “This ain’t it.”

“I know it ain’t the plan, Dutch. Things ain’t gone to plan in a long damn time, but we got to make a choice and soon before he figures you’re here, too. I think Bill was tryin' to warn me.”

Dutch shook his head. “If what you say is true…” His words trailed off.

“It is, Dutch.”

Swiftly, Dutch grabbed Arthur's hand as if he were going to shake it, but placed his other hand on Arthur's elbow, pulling him close. The sudden close proximity and Dutch's concentrated stare caused Arthur to swallow hard.

“Get what we came for,” Dutch whispered. He released the other roughly and departed.

Dutch had left a small piece of paper in his hand. Arthur strained his eyes to read it in the low lighting. It was not Dutch's hand that penned it.

_99-07-11_

_The vault combo._

Arthur attributed that knowledge and the elegant handwriting to Trelawny. Regardless of where they stood, Arthur admired the man's capability to pull through when obtaining information. He knew no one better at it. Hosea had been a close second, perhaps.

As Arthur went about opening the vault and cracking the safes inside, terror gripped him. Bill, Micah, Andrew, and his boys—any of them could walk in on him now—vulnerable.

Or worse.

They could kill Dutch.

His itchy lungs caused him to cough and skew his hand placement on the dial. This setback continued to repeat itself.

* * *

Before too long, Arthur heard a very distinctive explosion followed by gunfire from somewhere behind him.

“Shit, shit, shit.” Hurriedly, he stuffed what notes and spoils he could into his pockets and a satchel he had found. He groped around the car for anything he could use as a weapon. The closest thing he found was a letter opener.

Cautiously, he moved toward the commotion. Several other passengers stared at him from under seats and other pieces of furniture as he passed them.

“Any of y’all got a gun?” He had asked them to no avail.

Arthur continued to progress. The gun fire had seemed less frequent now.

_Dutch._

In the next car, Arthur came upon a large figure facing away from him with pistol drawn low.

“I’m sorry, Bill,” Arthur whispered as he knocked Williamson out from behind. His body sounded a loud thud. Before taking the man's pistol and gun belt, Arthur dragged him behind a crate. He used the letter opener to make a hole in the leather belt so he was able to cinch the belt around his hips.

Before moving on, he checked the cattleman revolver. Bill had not yet fired a shot.

With gun in hand, he continued to move through a few more cars, until he was on one of the open wooden platform cars. It was crowded with various crates and chests. He could see a sinister smoke obscuring the stars near the rear of the train.

A moment later, a distinctive click behind his head caused Arthur to freeze and lift his hands.

“Drop the gun or I’ll drop ya, Morgan.”

“Ok, O’Brien.” Arthur complied. His heart beat thudded in his ears.

“Kick it away.”

“Fine.” Arthur complied again.

“Drop the satchel, why don’t cha?”

Arthur slowly complied the third time and raised his hands again.

“Where’s Dutchy?”

“Don’t know.” Arthur shifted as he racked his brain for an out.

“Turn slowly,” Andrew instructed.

“You ain’t got to do this,” Arthur tried. “Just take the money.”

“We will be takin’ the money.” He pushed the barrel of the rifle into Arthur's chest. “Ol' Aiden is worth much more to us alive. Ya on the other hand, give or take a thousand, I don’t care either way.”

Immediately, Arthur knew his mistake. This was his fault.

Andrew marched Arthur to the middle of the open car. He abruptly stopped and pulled Arthur against him like a shield with the barrel of the rifle digging into Arthur’s side.

“I see ya over there. Come out,” Andrew demanded. “Hands raised n' don't try anythin' funny.”

After a tense moment, a silhouette emerged from a crouching position. Its hands were raised with two pistols trained directly on Arthur.

“Hey, cowpoke.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm about half way done with chapter eight already. Be sure to check back later today! 
> 
> This being the only thing I've ever written, either type of criticism is most welcomed and wanted!


	8. Goddamn Mess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Micah, Andrew, and Arthur have some words...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cut this one a bit short, but it seemed an appropriate stopping point.

“Micah."

_Goddamn rat!_

Through the darkness Arthur glared at his old adversary. No matter the panic he felt, he would not show weakness here. He would not give _him_ that satisfaction.

“There he is, ol' black lung Morgan!” The voice was saturated with phony surprise. "Bill had me goin', but ah, I am glad that you ain't really dead. We still is family after all."

"You're still a goddamn snake after all!" Arthur spat. He struggled against Andrew to no avail.

"Oh, not this again." Micah's voice was sodden with sarcasm. "Don't go breakin' my heart a second time, cowpoke. Surely, I won't recover."

"Here's hopin'."

"Shut up, the two of ya!" Andrew barked as he continued to use Arthur as human shield."You that murderin' Micah Bell then? Ran with them Van der Lindes?"

Arthur felt like he had been punched in the gut.

"Pleased to meet ya." Micah dramatically bowed his head. "Friend of yours, Morgan?" 

"Hardly." Arthur cleared his throat to stave off a coughing fit.

"You really know how to pick 'em." Micah slowly paced to the other side of the open car, keeping his gun trained on Arthur and Andrew.

Arthur lowered his voice to a harsh whisper. "How long you known?"

"Oh, shortly after ya showed up." Andrew's words hissed into his ear. "Don't take it personally, Morgan. I'm a opportunist is all, but it weren't too hard to figure. Usin' yer real name, usin' his, an' lettin' me in on how you ran togethe--."

"Got into the vault did ya?" Micah interrupted.

"Drop yer' guns!" Andrew barked. "Do it now!"

"Or what?" Micah smirked. "You'll shoot ol' Morgan here? Won't hear me complainin'."

"Micah!"

"What?"

"The both of ya, shut the fuck up!" Andrew backed away gradually with Arthur. Micah kept pace with his double action revolvers. "You go yer way, Mr. Bell, and we will go ours."

"Oh, come on, buddy. Where's the fun in that?"

"Go on, mister," Andrew coaxed. "You back off yer' way and we'll back off ours. Ain't nobody need killin'."

"Ya know, it's funny you say that 'cause I already killed your men." Micah cleared his throat and spit. "The two morons dressed in blue? Yeah, they went down easy. That said, it's in your best interest and Morgan's here if you just give up all civil like."

"That ain't fuckin' happenin'." Andrew retorted.

Before Micah could come back with anything, movement caught Arthur's eye on the train car behind him. A figure was crouched on top of the car's roof.

Suddenly, time stood still.

Voices were unintelligible to his ears.

The wind and clamor from the moving train was the only thing he could feel and hear.

There was a spark.

Something was thrown in their direction.

Landed with a thud.

It _hissed_.

Immediately, Arthur recognized it.

"Shit!"

"What the fu--"

“Arthur, jump _now_!”

It was a bundle of goddamn dynamite!

* * *

The next few moments came in obscure waves. Arthur had jumped. He had impacted something unyielding. His body was thrown. The wind was knocked from his chest.

Numerous deafening noises.

Pain.

Panic.

More pain.

Shortly thereafter, he could not hear anything but an piercing ringing sound.

Nearly blinding him, bits of red and yellow clouded his peripheral vision.

Then, something--someone had grabbed his arm and dragged him into a full on sprint.

All at once, everything moved so fast and slow.

His chest burned most of all.

When he finally got his wits about him, whatever force that pulled him onward crashed into the ground. He went with it and fell down what felt like a mountain before he landed on his hands and knees in the rough. Sharp objects cut into his legs and palms.

Everything hurt.

Breath alluded him.

As he coughed and stared, the sun began to rise on the horizon.

Black dots kept invading his vision. He tried his best to blink them away. He groaned.

* * *

After Arthur's eyes adjusted as they were able, he locked his gaze with Dutch, who was in a similar state just a few feet away. Arthur regarded his condition with tousled black curls and ruined garments. Unlike Arthur, Van der Linde was sitting up with his knees bent.

_We ain't too good at doing scores no more._

"Why are you looking at me like that, Arthur?" Dutch's chest was still heaving with each mouthful of air.

Arthur lowered his eyes to the ground. "I--I..." He couldn't breathe let alone think. He felt dizzy.

The sick, sinking, and twisting feeling returned to his gut.

It had felt like the end.

_This_ had felt like the end.

Arthur convinced himself that he had nearly lost him. He had nearly lost him and never spoke it--never admitted to him the heavy weight that had laid on his heart for years--the thing that crippled him more than the Tuberculosis--the thing that plagued his waking and latent mind--the thing that made him most ugly of all.

A world without Dutch was a world Arthur wanted no part in.

He was certain of it now.

"Arthur?" His voice was thick with sentiment.

“Dutch, I don't...” Arthur ran his bloodied hand over his face. "This is..."

"I know, son..."

Arthur cringed. He didn't know. He didn't have a goddamn clue.

But Arthur didn't have it in him in that moment to correct him.

"What a goddamn mess."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a challenge to write for sure! I'm working on the next chapter already. My goal is to update every few days at the worst. 
> 
> Feedback is always welcome!


	9. Calm Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arty and Dutchy mostly, but with some Trelawny sprinkled in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's another shorty!

As they trekked along, the heat of the day beat down upon the pair of outlaws.

The path was worn. The terrain was flat. Vegetation was sparse with no possible refuge.

The beading sweat on Arthur's brow trickled into his eyes and burned the small lesions on his shaven face. Not only did his body ache something fierce, but also his previously injured leg was re-aggravated, which caused him to favor it greatly.

After Arthur blinked the black dots back from his vision, he stopped for a moment and stared out at the horizon, but saw nothing other than light brown and red colored dirt and a few cactuses here and there.

Everything seemed bleak and pointless...endless. Eternal even.

"Arthur?" The voice seemed to hold concerned. Was it genuine? Arthur figured he'd never know.

""M fine," he grumbled in response and started walking--limping again.

Along the way, they had both since discarded any unnecessary formalwear. Arthur kept the majority of his clothing as his pockets still contained some loot from the train vault. He had not informed Dutch of that yet though.

He did not even want to think about how he looked. Surely his face was bruised. His head felt like it had quite literally been hit by a train. His ears still rang a bit and he was dizzy.

So dizzy.

Honestly, he did not know how much further he could go in his current state.

Van der Linde looked like shit, too.

Still wearing his vest and chains, Dutch walked on ahead with his usual gait. His once white shirt sleeves were rolled to his elbows. Shallow cuts and superficial scrapes littered his visible skin. His black hair was a frizzing chaos. Arthur almost preferred him that way. He seemed more authentic.

After a long while, Arthur cleared his parched throat. "Where are we?"

"New Austin I figure," Dutch replied with his voice nearly as gruff. "We should run into Trelawny shortly. He's got enough sense to come lookin'."

Arthur coughed and cleared his throat again. He tried to manage a response, but nothing short of a feeble rasp sounded from his gullet. He stumbled a bit, but managed to recover on his own.

"You all right there, Arthur?" Dutch slowed his pace so the other could catch up.

"'M fine."

"You gonna keep telling me that even if you weren't?"

Arthur didn't respond. He was too tired. Too sore. Too nauseated.

"I figured as much." Dutch sighed as he clasped an arm around Arthur's shoulders, pulling him tight up against his side. “We are gonna be ok.”

"Sure," Arthur whispered. He did not believe it. Surely, nothing could really and truely be ok ever again. Perhaps they'd both perish in this god-forsakened land. Perhaps the country would be better off with two less degenerates. Arthur wondered if fate could be that cruel--that kind.

"Faith, son..." Dutch let his voice trail off but kept his arm around Arthur as they walked.

When Dutch finally continued his voice was louder, firmer, triumphant even. "Faith is what we need--what we got. And this--this goddamn mess ain't nothing but a minor setback at best. With you by my side, Arthur, I--we are a force to be reckoned with!" 

Dutch’s gesture and words did nothing to comfort Arthur as they hiked on. If anything, Dutch's arm was heavy and the extra heat from the other's body compounded how awful he felt.

_Faith. Loyalty. Plan._

Every goddamn time Dutch opened his mouth, Arthur could almost vomit. He'd heard it all before. His entire being hurt and his head felt as if he were wading through thick fog and Dutch only made it worse.

"...together," Dutch kept going. "We will get out of this together. We will get stronger together and we will take them for everything they got. _Together_."

Arthur really thought Dutch sounded like a madman then. Maybe that was Dutch's way of coping with the failure of the train job. Maybe this was who he was now. Maybe it was the heat. Whatever it was, it was tiring to say the least.

"...like the great Mr. Evelyn Miller said, Arthur, the whole point of America is freedom. Freedom of thought, freedom of deed, freedom of action..."

Nothing Dutch said made any damn sense to Arthur. Not a word of it--it all seemed like pointless crap. Where the older man got his energy from, Arthur hadn't a clue.

* * *

How much time had passed?

Arthur didn't know, but found his attention fading in and out as his former mentor went on and on.

"...ain't free. These goddamn fools think they are free to think and do, but they ain't, Arthur. The tyranny of the great machine has tricked them into thinking they have a choice, but they..."

Arthur didn't know about all that or any of it, but he wished the man would shut the hell up. He wouldn't tell him that though. No--that and what came after would be too much. Arthur couldn't bear it.

"...deception and nonsense is the high point of American society. Miller said that. Nonsense. This is nonsense. American nonsense..."

* * *

After hours and hours of Dutch's rambling and the incessant heat...

"Gentlemen!" The Englishman waved to them, hastening the coupled horses forward. "Mr. Van der Linde! Mr. Morgan! Hello!"

"My friend!" Dutch exclaimed as he grabbed Arthur's arm and dragged him toward the approaching stage coach. "Josiah, what took you so long?"

"My apologies! Seems like you all created quite a mess indeed. You wouldn't suppose how much law is swarming about." He paused. "My god," Trelawny gasped as he got closer. He quickly reined in the horses at the side of the path and got down from the stage. "Excuse me for saying so, but you both look wholly dreadful." He quickly made his way over and glanced between the other two. "May I ask what happened?"

“Obviously,” Dutch replied bitterly. "Things did not go to _plan_."

"Well, that's clear as day." Trelawny’s eyes wandered to Arthur. His face took on immediate alarm at the sight of the younger outlaw. “My dear boy!”

"Josiah," Arthur sighed as his eyes met the magician's. He smiled at him for a moment. Then, his knees buckled and his head slumped forward.

"Help me with him," Dutch growled as he struggled to keep the two of them upright. 

Wordlessly, Trelawny complied. Between the two of them, they managed to get Arthur into the wagon and laid down on one of the two bench seats. That small feat consumed any remaining energy Dutch had left. He leaned against the side of the stage with his arms crossed, trying to catch his breath for the second time that day.

Trelawny had lingered inside with Arthur for a moment. He emerged from the wagon replacing one of his gloves.

"I fear dear Arthur may need the attention of a physician soonest. He’s a tad warm. Amongst his other injuries, it seems he may have hit his head rather hard. It is relatively concerning to say the least."

"I know," Dutch agreed. He closed his eyes. “That might not be possible—the law now. They may be…” He let his words train off then.

"Something is telling me we will not be waiting on Mr. O'Brien and his associates," Trelawny said grimly.

Dutch shook his head.

"Pity." Trelawny handed a canteen to Dutch. "See if you are able to get Arthur to drink, too. Considering these unfortunate circumstances, it may save the boy any severe complications. As you suggested, the law may cause difficulties getting him to a doctor."

Dutch scowled and took the canteen. Before taking a swig, he eyed the other man for a long instant.

"While you have a rest a moment, I'll remove some of Arthur's garments to ensure that he doesn't catch heat stroke. Surely, we cannot risk that." Trelawny made his way to enter the wagon for a second time.

Dutch stopped him with a unkind hand to the other man's chest. "I'll do it."

Trelawny raised his gloved hands in defense. "Really, Dutch. It's quite all right. I don't mind."

"I do," he snarled. Dutch pushed Trelawny toward the front of the stage coach perhaps rougher than necessary. "Drive."

* * *

A rocking sensation jolted Arthur awake. Shortly thereafter, a cool liquid was pressed to his lips. He swallowed greedily, but kept his eyes closed. Everything hurt.

"You're ok," that deep voice soothed. "_We_ are ok."

Startled, Arthur opened his eyes at that and choked on the liquid in his throat.

Dutch looked down at him seriously, holding his face with a rough hand.

To his horror, Arthur's shirt was absent. His head was laying in Dutch's lap. As panic set in, Arthur made a pathetic move to get up, but Dutch held him firmly and pulled him nearer and further against his torso. Arthur felt the coolness of the chains of Dutch's vest on his unclothed back. He continued to cough and struggle.

"Calm down." An order.

"Dutch," Arthur breathed, once he had recovered from aspirating. He had no strength. Unable to yet face this new reality, he screwed his eyes shut.

“Were you expecting someone else?” His voice was vacant.

Arthur opened his eyes at that. Dutch's hold on him slacked, which allowed him to clumsily settle himself on the bench seat opposite of Dutch. A glint of something dangerous lingered in those dark eyes across from him.

“’Course not,” Arthur croaked as he rubbed his eyes. He knew he should not push Dutch when he was in such a state, but he was curious. “Why would you ask somethin’ like that?”

“Come on, son,” Dutch growled. “We both know you’re smarter than that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I appreciate the feedback! Be brutal.


	10. Nothing Worth Tellin'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur and Dutch...

_ Come on, son. We both know you're smarter than that._

* * *

The rocking and bumping of the stage coach compounded Arthur's nausea. He took a long moment to compose himself as best he could while Dutch regarded him with stern eyes. Everything was too close. Too clouded. Too fucked.

Recent memories bombarded him.

_Bill. The goddamn fool._

_ Andrew. The goddamn traitor._

_ Micah. The goddamn rat._

_ The goddamn dynamite._

_ Arthur, jump now!_

_ Dutch._

_ Trelawny._

* * *

"I don’t get you." Arthur's voice sounded weak to his own ears. The black dots returned to his vision. “I don't get you," he repeated with his words a bit less shaky. Sweat dripped down his face and onto his bare chest. His hands trembled as he gripped the bench seat on which he sat.

“Feigning ignorance? That’s beneath you, _son_." The elder outlaw's voice was solid with a composed rage that only Dutch could muster. "Tell me, or else I'll be forced to make _assumptions_." Dutch's threat seemed so far away to his ears.

"'Bout what?" Arthur shook his head, but regretted it. His thoughts were a jumbled mess. The pain in his head throbbed. He hadn't the energy.

_Goddamn mess._

Knowing that society was not exactly accepting of such a _thing_ and then the uncertainty of Dutch's reaction; that almost terrified Arthur more than any gun barrel he’d ever stared down—

Before Arthur had his wits about him, Dutch's hand roughly grasped Arthur's bruised face with his thumb on Arthur's right cheek and his fingers holding his left. Arthur couldn't help but met the other's perilous gaze.

"_Mr. Trelawny_," Dutch managed through gritted teeth as he leaned forward.

"Dutch..." Arthur couldn't look away as he witnessed the lights of hell dancing in those dark eyes. "Ain’t nothing worth tellin’."

“The _truth_, Arthur.”

Arthur hissed in pain at the rough fingers that dug into his already injured skin. He closed his eyes to escape the brown orbs that peered into his very soul. He could not--would not tell him. He'd witnessed Dutch kill someone over less...much less.

The cool metal of the rings on Dutch's middle and smallest finger felt almost lovely against Arthur's bruised and fevered flesh. He couldn’t be sure if the heat he was feeling was entirely from his injuries, but then again, he couldn't be sure of many things at that moment.

“Arthur, look at _me_,” the voice commanded.

Between Dutch's rough fingers on his face and his headache, Arthur struggled to be rational—struggled to make sense of things. Stringing words together was an even greater feat. As he willed himself to contemplate a response, the cold rings on his face and their owner continued to distract him greatly. He wanted to obey.

“Dutch, I…” Arthur rasped as he scrunched his eyes shut even tighter. He dug his own nails into the bench.

The smell of copper, sweat, and sickness.

Stale tobacco.

Wood and earth.

The taste of blood and salt.

Each bump of the coach furthered Arthur's discomfort.

But the worst and best part was the bruising hand that gripped his face.

And those cruel lips that were just a few inches beyond his reach.

Rage.

Heat.

Confusion.

Before Arthur could properly respond, a distinctive shot and the splintering of wood caused Arthur's eyes to fly open wide. Instantly, the hand on his face was withdrawn. To his horror, there was new blood splattered on Dutch's face and unprecedented warmth that surged throughout his body as he hit the floor of the stage coach.

A familiar pain followed.

He couldn’t breathe.

Urgent hands pressed down painfully on his chest.

He couldn’t think.

Dutch's voice bombarded his ears.

For the second time since the train job went to shit, Arthur was rendered unconscious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologizes for my hiatus and the shortness of this update!
> 
> Happy New Year!
> 
> Good news is that I got some of the next one already written. :)


	11. The Stranger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur meets a stranger.

Unconsciousness was a curious thing to Arthur. It had become an almost constant part of his normalcy as of late, but this time...

Something was extremely different.

Unusual.

And wrong.

Extremely wrong.

Before he had felt cold.

Now, he felt nothing--nothing at all and it terrified him.

An odd voice called to him from nowhere and everywhere. The words were unintelligible to his ears.

Suddenly, he found himself seated at an unmanned bar. The finely lit establishment seemed brand new and well kept, but empty.

When he looked to his hands, there was a shot of whiskey there. He raised it to his nose, but it was odorless. He pushed it away and looked for the source of the voice to no avail.

"Goddamn," he muttered in surprise as he stood. He anticipated the familiar pain from his leg injury, but it never came. His eyes caught the glint of a mirror on the far side of the room. He paced to it quickly without his previous limp.

Strange.

"What the--" Arthur was at a loss for words as he stared at his reflection. His battered and bloodied appearance was no more. His eyes were clear, face shaven, and hair short. The tattered finery that he wore for the train job was replaced by his usual gamblers hat, blue shirt, work pants, and worn boots. Even the scar on his chin was gone. He felt as though he was staring at a ghost.

"How the--" His words caught in his throat as he saw movement in the corner of the mirror. Quickly, he turned to see a figure clad in a black three piece suit with a black tie and top hat to match. There was a strange familiarity about him. "God--"

"I wouldn't finish that a second time." The figure stated.

"What is this?" Arthur stared at the figure for a long moment as the details of it seemed to materialize. A thick and styled mustache and heavy brows complimented its' deep set and dark eyes. Arthur felt a sinking and knowing feeling as the other held his stare. "_Where_ is this?"

"Hello, Arthur." The figure's expression remained neutral. "Arthur Morgan."

"Do I know you, feller?"

"You haven't for some time." The being paused. "I've been watching you."

"Yeah?" Arthur observed the strange man. "How long?"

"For quite some time now. Currently, it's easier that you are nearer." The being stepped toward him. "I've been watching more closely since the Downes' Farm...incident."

"You know about that, huh?" Arthur felt guilt creep into his chest.

"How you beat an already dying man to death in front of his wife and son? Yes, I know all about that, Mr. Morgan, and more."

"I ain't proud of it," Arthur defended.

"Of course you aren't." The man rubbed his chin. "You were just following orders after all."

"Who are you, mister?" Arthur asked.

"An accountant...of sorts."

"Sure." Arthur paced back to the bar and took a seat. A feeling of foreboding overcame him. "Is this _it_, then?"

"You always were clever." The stranger sat next to him.

"What happened to me?" Arthur picked up the odorless shot of whiskey and swirled it in his hand.

"You were shot."

Arthur nodded. "Is Dutch ok?"

"No...hasn't been for some time now." The figure paused. "But he'll live."

"What about--"

"Mister Trelawny is unscathed as well."

"What now?" Arthur looked at the man expectantly.

"You can take my hand." The man extended it to Arthur. "All of this pain--the distress of your existence can end."

"Or...?" Arthur stared at him expectantly.

The stranger shrugged.

"What happens if I drink this?" Arthur held up the shot glass.

"Nothing. Something. Everything." Arthur looked at the bizarre and yet saddened gaze in the man's eyes. "As you wish."

Not only was the liquid odorless, but it was also tasteless and weightless. He blinked.

When Arthur opened his eyes, a strange picture of sorts replaced the wall behind the bar. It shimmered and moved as a scene came into focus. He glanced at the stranger to his left. The being was silent, but turned his attention the scene on the wall as well.

The scene was unfamiliar to Arthur. There were no details or colors. No light.

Dutch's silhouette was crouched over another.

"Every time you'd leave camp doing who knows what...disappearing for days, weeks...or go off on a job--taking _that_ risk--this is exactly what I feared would happen. Now that it has, son, I’m at a loss for words." Dutch voice cracked. "I’m at a loss for words, Arthur..."

"I know you’re holding on right now and I desperately want you to fight but, Arthur, if you can't, if you can't fight anymore..." A broken sob escaped from Dutch's chest. "I want to tell you it's ok..."

"I want to, son, believe me that I want to tell you it will be all right here...but it won't...it won't...I won't..."

Before dissolving completely, the image flickered a few times.

"Dutch!" Arthur growled as he slammed his fists onto the bar. "Why the hell did you show me that?"

"I didn't."

Arthur glared to his left, but the finely dressed man was gone.

With renewed vigor, Arthur quickly made his way to the only visible exit; the door. As he reached out for the handle a voice stopped him.

"For such a progressive mindset, human life matters so little to you as you've killed men for a couple dollars, but protected a woman's right rally. So curious, Arthur Morgan."

Arthur looked over his shoulder to see the strange man standing there shaking his head.

"Always did what I thought was best," Arthur retorted. "At the time."

"Absolutely," the man agreed. "You know what’s right."

Without hesitating a moment longer, Arthur opened the door. Instantaneously, he was blinded by a brilliant light.

* * *

Nothingness became warmth and pain.

Arthur could not move or open his eyes, but he could breathe again.

So much pain.

That was a start.

* * *

"Is he speaking?" Trelawny asked quietly.

"He was," Dutch replied. "He was, but not to me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hoped something with the Strange Man would happen in RDR2. 
> 
> Tell me what you think about what I did here. 
> 
> Side Note: I started another fic. It will be back burner to this one, of course. It's waaaaay different. Not sure if I like it.


	12. Like I Shouldn't

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, Arthur regains consciousness. Dutch and he attempt a "score." At long last, Arthur voices what he couldn't before and seeks comfort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In a sense, I pulled the trigger. It starts off slow, but...I hope you like it! :)

Abruptly, Arthur roused to disorder with the callous memory of _The_ _Strange Man_ and a new motivation to not only survive, but also to thrive. Furthermore, a strong sense of conviction brewed within him.

_Armadillo._

Despite his newly found clarity, a colossal headache and fatigue extended Arthur's ability to distinguish the voices and words clamoring around him. His eyelids and limbs felt as though they were made of lead.

_Trelawny._

"...I recognize your frustration, Dutch, but Armadillo simply is not a rational option." The magician's voice was more rigid than Arthur ever heard it before. "At any rate, I'm afraid I have to stand by that entirely."

_Dutch._

"It's the only option we've got!" Dutch's tone was one of impatience. "It's the closest! They've got a store and a goddamn doctor, which is what we _need_\--what he _needs_."

"Again, I understand. However, you and I both know that we cannot risk exposing Mr. Morgan to scarlet fever of all things! The locals talk of a curse, Dutch. I've confirmed the present epidemic! It isn't something to be trifled with." Trelawny's accent became more muddled as he continued. "Even if he were able to survive it, and keep in mind his weakened immunity, it would surely cut his time--"

"Don't goddamn say it, Josiah!" Dutch's voice cracked, but then softened. "We need a new plan and money. I just need time. Time...to think."

An age of quiet passed as Arthur mulled over the idea in his brain that nothing good would come from going to Armadillo. Somehow, he was certain of that...more certain about that than anything else and he couldn't explain it.

Cold.

Pain.

Wherever he was, it was pitch dark and freezing. Most alarming of all, he couldn't move--not even his fingers. He strained his eyes against the darkness, but wasn't able to make anything out. He couldn't bring himself to move.

In addition to Arthur's injuries sustained during the train incident, there was a new tenderness emanating from his torso. Breathing was a feat in itself.

So cold.

But alive.

With purpose.

"Where do _you_ think you're going?" Dutch's far away voice was irritated again.

Trelawny's tone was calm, but sharp. "While you do...whatever it is you plan to do, Mr. van der Linde, I intend to find a solution to our mutual dilemmas. Adieu." 

As hard as Arthur tried, his resolve was not sufficient to sustain consciousness.

* * *

  
The reverberation of enormous breaking waves filled Arthur's ears.

As the onslaught of deep waters continued, a great weight lightened from his chest. Profound colors swam from his vision as he tried to blink the ocean away.

When all of the discomforts of the earthly world finally registered, he released a hoarse groan. As he sat up slowly, his joints cracked. A abrasive blanket fell from his unclothed chest.

Arthur didn't recognize his surroundings. Even though a bit dim, it was a clean and quaint dwelling as far as he could see from the lumpy bed on which he now sat. Near the single bed, was a nightstand, bucket, dresser with a mirror, armoire, and living chair. All furnishings seemed new and in pristine condition. Arthur thought it was curious.

Groaning again, he rubbed the crust from his eyes. Each crease in his hands and fingers ached with a stiffness he hadn't known before. Every joint in his body ached with the same rigidity. Oddly, his mind felt serene and empty.

After several minutes, Arthur stood slowly in dark pants and made his way with heavy bare feet over to the dresser. He placed his palms flat on the top to steady himself as he watched the individual staring back at his bloodshot eyes and bearded cheeks.

"Look at yourself, you bastard..."

An ugly patch of raised pink flesh on the left of his chest caught his attention. Upon further inspection, he discovered eight uniform stitches there. Also, there were several yellowing bruises littering his ribs and abdominal area. The lack of weigh on his thinning frame alarmed him.

"Ugly son of a--" A harsh coughing fit interrupted him. Once he recovered, thirst willed him to wander through the open bedroom door. 

A small lantern burned on a kitchen table surrounded by four chairs. The room contained an unused fireplace, well stocked shelving and cupboards, and a sink/wash basin. He found a pitcher of water, which he poured into a tin cup and drank greedily. The water awakened hunger.

After rummaging around, Arthur plopped down at the table with an armful of canned goods and a knife. Sloppily, he indulged in crackers, peaches, and strawberries. As he continued to indulge in a second can of peaches, a bottle of fine brandy caught his eye, which he drained instantly. He settled himself back down at the table and proceeded to indulge further.

* * *

"Mr. Morgan!'

Startled, Arthur opened his eyes to realize that he was sprawled out on the kitchen floor with no memory of how he got there. He blinked several times as he tried to get his hands under himself.

"Don't move!" A familiar voice sounded. "Allow me...allow me."

Gentle hands were on his back and shoulders as he was lifted and settled into a chair. His arms fell onto the table. He rested his forehead on them and shut his eyes. There was a throbbing behind them. It fatigued him.

"I didn't think you'd wake so soon, dear boy! I had meant to be here when you did."

_Dear boy._

"Josiah."

"I'll be just with you, Arthur," the older man said. "I think I'll put on a pot of tea."

"Sure..." Arthur sat up and watched as Trelawny hurried around the kitchen area. The magician was dressed in a brown vest and pants with a white dress shirt rolled to his elbows. His grooming was on point as always.

"I see you found _my_ brandy," Trelawny commented as he placed the herbs and pot on the now lit hearth. "Was it to your liking?"

"Yeah, I suppose so." Arthur found himself smirking as he watched the other man stoking the fire and preparing the tea. He seemed flustered.

"Would you care for some, Arthur?"

"Sure."

"Sugar and cream?"

"I suppose."

"I'm sure you're curious..." The elder's voice trailed off as he rummaged about. "You've been in and out for roughly two weeks..."

"Huh..."Arthur stifled a cough in his hand.

"It's remarkable how resilient you are." Trelawny looked at Arthur for a moment. "According to the physician, you suffered from heat exhaustion, a concussion, and a gunshot wound among other less threatening injuries. Most men couldn't survive one of those things!"

"I ain't most men." Arthur smiled.

"I suppose you aren't!"

Once the tea was poured and served, Trelawny settled himself next to Arthur and regarded him with his serious green eyes.

"How do you feel?"

"Fine...I guess." Arthur replied as held the teacup in his hands. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. A minty aroma filled his nostrils--just like Trelawny's cologne. His cheeks flushed as a torrent of memories flooded back to his now conscious mind.

"Are you quite all right?" Trelawny's voice was laced with concern.

"'M fine." Arthur grunted as he desperately tried to slow his heart rate by thinking of anything other than when Trelawny's lips had pressed to his. When he looked back at Trelawny, Arthur found it even more difficult to calm himself as a lock of Trelawny's dark brown hair fell delightfully out of place.

"Perhaps you should return to bed?" The other reached toward him.

"Really, Josiah." Arthur protested as the other man's hand pressed against his forehead. "I'm fine."

"You're burning up!" The other exclaimed as he stood.. "You still need rest." Trelawny offered his arm.

"Fine..." Arthur grumbled as he stood on his own. He wished Trelawny would right his hair. His cheeks continued to burn.

"Arthur, let me--"

"Said 'm goddamn fine, Josiah." The sharpness in his own voice surprised him. Trelawny frowned and busied himself with cleaning up the mess Arthur had made earlier.

Unable to cope further, Arthur returned to the bedroom he awoke in. He flopped down on the bed and stared at the tiny cracks in the ceiling as his mind continued to wander.

_Forgive me._

* * *

Roughly a week later and after the stitches in his chest had been removed, Arthur found himself robbing a nearby general store with none other than Dutch van der Linde. He hadn't wanted to and even protested, but Dutch had insisted that they needed money if _they_ were going to make it anywhere beyond Armadillo. As always and despite his better judgment, Arthur conceded once again.

Trelawny had left the week prior stating he had affairs to attend to elsewhere, but would return to the well furnished dwelling that Arthur had awoken in from time to time. Once Dutch had shown up, Trelawny seemed to become distant and short when interacting with Arthur and had absolutely nothing to do with Dutch (with the exceptions of pleasantries). The odd interaction or lack thereof between the two men, caused Arthur to wonder what had happened, but decided it was by far safer to ignore it.

So, there Arthur stood, dressed in his typical garb with a black bandana over his face and guns drawn. Dutch was dressed in all black with his trademark bandana and black hat to boot.

"This is a robbery!" Dutch exclaimed as they entered the store. He held a gun to the storeowner's head and the other trained on a customer while Arthur stood lookout. "Hand over the money and no one will get killed unnecessarily."

"Do as the man says," Arthur barked from where he stood, watching out the front window. "Now!"

The clerk fumbled with the cash register.

"We don't want to kill any of you," Dutch encouraged as he lazily leaned over the counter and pressed the barrel of one gun against the side of the man's head. "But trust me...we will."

The job seemed smooth enough until one of the female customers began shrieking and a couple of lawmen interrupted things. The next few moments were a blur to Arthur, but he was certain the shrieking woman had been shot and not by him.

The two outlaws had ran out the back of the store, jumped on separate horses, and tore off down the street. To Arthur's dismay, Dutch's horse was shot out from underneath him. He fell and rolled into the muddied street. Swiftly, Arthur turned his horse around and went back for him. An approaching lawman had his rifle trained on Dutch. Just as he was to pull the trigger, Arthur shot him clean through the eye.

Next, Arthur grabbed Dutch's hand and swung him up on the horse behind him as he dug his spurs in. One of Dutch's arms was wrapped around Arthur's waist while the other kept the pursuing law at bay.

After a sickening crack of bone, the horse under them crumpled to the ground throwing both men. Arthur felt grief for the poor beast. Dutch made it to his feet first and dragged Arthur behind him off of the road and into the woods.

"Stay with me, Arthur!"

The sounds of hurried hooves and shooting bombarded the outlaws' ears. Dutch continued to sprint through the trees with Arthur just a stride behind. Bullets whizzed through the air around them, splintering trees. Dutch dragged Arthur over a small embankment and up underneath it as the hoof beats and shouting grew closer.

Dutch held a finger to where his lips were hidden behind his red and white bandana.

"Dutch--" He flashed Arthur a warning, silencing the younger outlaw.

After several adrenaline fueled moments, during which Arthur swore they would be discovered and hanged for their crime, the wooded area fell silent. Amidst the excitement, Arthur hadn't realized that Dutch had an arm around his body, holding him pressed firmly against his side. Arthur shut his eyes.

The memory of being shot as Dutch held his face caused his heartbeat to quicken.

But the memory of the encounter with the Strange Man caused his chest to ache as he recalled the scene of a distraught Dutch's dialogue and the sob that had left his lips.

That goddamned sob.

The memory of that sound broke Arthur.

Twice.

Twice now, Arthur had been so close to confessing the sin in his heart.

After his most recent brush with death, it renewed his need to do so.

But doubt lingered.

And fear returned.

But Dutch was so close.

Arthur shrugged free from Dutch's strong grasp and moved to sit an arm's length away. He pulled his bandana free from his bearded face and watched as Dutch did the same. Arthur had lost his hat when his horse had fell and Dutch's clothing was quite muddy. Quite a sight.

_So close._

It was Dutch who broke the quiet as he caught Arthur's stare.

"I know what you're thinking, son, but spare me the sarcasm." Annoyed, Dutch looked away from him and lit a cigarette.

Arthur just shook his head. After all that had just transpired, the man sat there smoking and accusing just as usual as could be.

Conversely, the man hadn't an inkling of what Arthur was thinking. He smirked at that and stared at the older man's profile, admiring the curve of his jaw, the beauty mark high on his cheekbone, his finely groomed mustache, and the way his lips moved as he...smoked.

"We ain't too good at scores no more," Arthur found himself saying. He watched as Dutch's expression tensed to one of offense.

"Still doubting, Mr. Morgan..." Dutch exhaled with smoke. Anger caused the crows feet at the corners of his eyes to become more prominent. "All I--we need is one more--"

"Score?" Arthur interrupted. "I know, Dutch. I know, but..." He ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his forehead.

"But?" There it was. The resentment Dutch felt toward him condensed into a single word--a single syllable.

If things had been as they were before with the gang, Arthur would have conceded for what would have been the second time today. If things were the same, Arthur would have backed off, maybe even professed his loyalty or offered reassurance.

But things were different now.

Arthur was different.

Maybe Dutch wasn't, but he'd like to think there was hope.

Hope.

Faith.

Maybe he could save Dutch like Dutch had saved him those 20 some years ago.

But Arthur felt so small under Dutch's eyes.

He didn't want to burden him with his love.

But his chest felt as though it was on fire.

So it was hope. 

_Don't you ever leave love aside, Arthur. It's all we got._

"What is it, Arthur?" Dutch caught his stare. His brows furrowed.

"You know I-I..." Arthur paused and looked away.

"What?" Dutch stared at him expectantly.

"I-I...love you."

"I know," Dutch breathed without skipping a beat. He discarded his cigarette and pulled another from his pocket.

But he didn't.

An age passed as Arthur released a ragged sigh and his cheeks flushed.

Out of the blue, he felt the need to run far from Dutch. Because what came after--once he told him the truth and he understood, Dutch would have the most fragile piece of him—that he could belittle, destroy, or use as he see fit. He could turn Arthur's confession into a wound that never healed and twist the knife whenever he wanted--however he wanted--to do whatever he wanted.

It terrified him.

And thrilled him.

But here they still sat underneath a grassy overhang in the woods after a failed robbery attempt with daylight fleeting. Dutch must have smoked almost a full pack by now.

Sighing, Arthur mustered all of his courage. "I mean, Dutch, I love you like I shouldn't."

That caught Dutch's attention. He turned and watched Arthur with his cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth.

As soon as the words left Arthur's lips, he wished he could take it back, but his mouth betrayed him further. "How a man shouldn't love another man."

There was silence.

Dead silence as brown bore into blue.

Arthur held his breath painfully in his chest.

Then, Dutch laughed.

It was a profound and thunderous noise. The cigarette fell from his mouth.

As Arthur pushed himself to his unsteady feet, he felt his heart breaking all over again.

"I--I should go..." His tear ducts burned as did the pain in his chest.

_ No one would have me._

"Arthur, wait." The other's tone was grave.

"Forget what I said." Devastation settled into his chest as he continued to walk away.

"Arthur!"

How long could he spend aching? The ache was worse now than it had ever been. Finally, he had shared it, and Dutch had laughed.

Dutch just laughed.

Laughed at him.

Arthur was a joke.

He gave Dutch his youth.

His love.

His all.

_I gave you all I had._

Real physical pain spread throughout his chest.

Arthur was too dumb.

Too coarse.

Too loyal.

Too willing.

Never enough for anyone.

Lyle, his father.

His mother.

Eliza.

Mary.

Anna.

And now Dutch.

Again.

With rejection by Dutch, Arthur thought he would feel empty, but he felt different. A new necessity surfaced and he could not distance himself fast enough.

* * *

It was dark when he burst through the door.

"Arthur!" Trelawny startled to his feet. "Where is--?"

"Don't goddamn matter," Arthur growled as he continued to close the distance between the two of them.

"Are you all right?" Trelawny's green eyes were severe with concern.

"No." Arthur's voice sounded pathetic to his own ears.

Defeated.

Immediate alarm took over Trelawny's expression. "Well then...until you are, you and I are going to sit right here." Trelawny gestured for him to take a seat in one of the kitchen chairs. "You feel whatever it is that you need to feel. All right?"

"Sure." Arthur's head fell to his hands and his arms to his knees.

"All right." Trelawny soothed as he pulled up a chair next to him.

"Thanks." Arthur's voice was weak. All of the walls that he had built to protect himself over the years were beginning to crumble.

"Of course, of course." Trelawny spoke softly. "My dear boy..."

They stayed that way for a long time; Trelawny sitting near and whispering consoling and encouraging words every so often, while Arthur kept his face buried in his hands.

Finally, Arthur sat up with bleary eyes and met Trelawny's kind gaze.

"Josiah, I'm sorry to burden you with my foolishness," he whispered. The heartbreak persisted in his chest.

"Ssshh. It's quite all right. Quite all right." Trelawny reached out to him then. Arthur allowed himself to be pulled into the other's arms. "No need to be sorry, dear Arthur. We've all been foolish at one time or another. Nevertheless, I told you, that you would always have a friend in me..."

The last wall crumbled.

"Let me take care of you."

The dam broke.

In an unexpected person's arms, Arthur let it all go.

The lifetime of heartbreak, loss, rejection, and betrayal.

It came crashing wave after wave.

After wave.

After wave.

His father.

His mother.

Two white crosses.

Those they lost from the Blackwater job.

From the cold on the way to Colter.

Sean.

When little Jack was kidnapped.

The beatings and worse he suffered at the hands of Colm O'Driscoll.

Kieran.

Mary.

The Tuberculosis diagnosis.

Hosea.

Lenny.

Guarma.

Dutch.

Molly.

Eagle Flies.

Susan.

The gang.

John.

Micah.

Dutch.

The harder he cried, the tighter the arms around him became.

The usual rambling magician said nothing at all, but rested he head on top of Arthur's as he held him.

Realization crashed into Arthur and his raw emotions. Arthur had hurt Trelawny. He had rejected him. Even after that, Trelawny was consoling him.

Then, Arthur pulled away and stared at his hands.

"It's all right to feel how you feel, Arthur." Trelawny offered his handkerchief, which Arthur took and wiped his face. "Keep it."

Arthur tucked the fabric into his pocket and stared at the other man. “You sure you ain’t got some hidden agenda, Mr. Trelawny?”

“Oh of course not!” Trelawny looked offended. “Do you really think so little of me?”

“Folks usually want something from me." Arthur sat up and crossed his arms. "'M tryin' to figure out what you want."

“That’s…” Trelawny was quiet for a moment. “Do you think romance is silly, Arthur?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was hard. My heart hurts. My brain is itchy. Please tell me what you think!
> 
> P.S. Arthur & Dutch ain't over. Have some GODDAMN faith!


	13. Such A Sight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A continuation of the last chapter following Trelawny's burning question to Arthur and what comes after. Oh, and Dutch is back. It's getting real warm in here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long. I've been struggling and settled. I do hope ya'll like it!

“Do you think romance is silly, Arthur?"

Time seemed to slow as Arthur studied the poised Englishman who sat next to him. The man's jade eyes nearly twinkled with anticipation.

Despite Arthur's recent breakdown, Trelawny maintained an unwavering composure. The kindness in his eyes unnerved Arthur, who took a long moment to recover from his grief and embarrassment. He wiped his face once more with the handkerchief Trelawny had given him and stowed it in his pocket.

Had he said to much?

Not enough?

_ Goddamn fool. _

As Arthur rubbed his cry tired eyes, guilt overtook him. Surely, Trelawny had other things—more important affairs to attend to than a broken Arthur Morgan.

Painfully, he cleared his throat. “What you mean?” Arthur finally asked.

“You’re an clever lad, Arthur. I’m certain you very well know,” Trelawny responded with a wink. “However, I’ll ask you a second time… Do _you_ think _romance_ is silly?” He leaned toward Arthur.

“Never gave much thought to it,” Arthur grunted. He rubbed the unkempt beard at his chin and inhaled deeply, which only reaffirmed that the other man smelled as fancy as he looked.

_ Hmm…_

Arthur hadn’t realized that he had closed his eyes until he opened them.

A perfectly curled mustache and delicious lips were mere inches away from his own.

_ Dear boy._

Blue transfixed on green.

_ My dear boy._

That fresh need, born from the most recent rejection of Dutch van der Linde, rose from Arthur’s gut, to his chest, and got stuck in his irritated throat.

_ Goddamn._

Regardless, the ocean never left the land.

_ Goddamn it._

The need grew urgent.

_ Warm._

Immediate.

Needy.

Always on cue…

“Excuse my forthrightness,” Trelawny's accent was like the finest silk, “but would you permit me to kiss you?”

Not trusting his voice—his brain—or anything else, Arthur nodded so slight.

Although Arthur was uncertain, he mustered the confidence and leaned toward the gentleman with closed eyes—closing the remaining distance between the two.

A moment later, the sensation of thin, yet soft lips upon his own melted away his cautious—guarded mind.

Soothed his anxiety.

His worry.

His doubt.

But.

He hadn’t been ready.

For this.

_ Feeling_.

Arthur hadn’t be ready for Josiah Fucking Trelawny, the magician, the con man, the people pleaser—

_ Goddamn._

Arthur couldn’t be certain if it was Trelawny or he who parted their lips first, but it enabled Arthur to taste the other's breath; warm and minty.

_ Dear boy._

Again, he couldn’t be sure if it was he or the other that sighed into the kiss as a gentle hand cupped his cheek and encouraged him to deepen the kiss with just a slight bit of tongue.

_ GODDAMN._

A gasp escaped Arthur as he continued to sample Trelawny's delectable mouth.

Josiah smiled against Arthur’s lips.

Who knew kissing a man—kissing Josiah Goddamn Trelawny could feel so…good…so right.

They parted shortly thereafter, but Trelawny stayed near with his hands still resting against Arthur’s shortly cropped beard. His emerald eyes were alight like Arthur had never seen before.

“Thank you, my dear boy,” Trelawny praised. “That was most exquisite.” He smiled. "Most exquisite indeed..."

“Sure was,” Arthur agreed quietly. The tops of his ears and cheeks burned. His chest felt tight.

“Arthur, Arthur, Arthur,” Trelawny sighed as he took both of his hands and ran them from Arthur's cheekbones to the back of his head. “Such a sight you are.”

“Josiah…” Arthur closed his eyes at the contact and felt himself leaning into the touch and flushing even more. “Ain’t got to fuss over me,” he mumbled.

“Oh, of course I do!” Trelawny threaded his fingers into the hair at the nape of the younger man's neck. “You’re something to make a fuss about of course. I assure you of that one hundred percent and more!”

Arthur was going to protest further, but was silenced as Trelawny's lips pressed to his own in a firmer and wetter exchange.

Following the kiss, Trelawny was the one to speak first.

“Arthur,” the magician nearly purred the outlaw’s name as he took his hand in his, brushing a kiss to the rough knuckles he found there, and pulled him to his feet.

“Josiah,” Arthur whispered as cherry continued to tinge his cheeks.

“Ask me about my _agenda_. I think you’d like to know!” His voice was playful as he continued to hold Arthur's hand in his, running his thumb over the skin. “Ask away, dear, ask away…” His warm lips brushed Arthur's knuckles again.

“Fine…” Arthur downcast his eyes as the severe emotion in Trelawny's face overwhelmed him. “What’s your agenda, Mr. Trelawny?” His own eyes burned and his heart beat hurt.

“Oh, my dear boy, I thought you’d never ask!” Trelawny exclaimed in faux surprise and relief.

_ Always the showman._

“For starters, Arthur Morgan,” Trelawny released Arthur's hand and bowed deep and low, “I promise to cherish this—you for whatever it is—whatever it becomes or doesn't for as long as you’ll entertain the thought of me.” He produced a rose from seamlessly nowhere and presented it to Arthur. "For you!"

“I…” Arthur's words caught in his throat as he took the flower. He swallowed hard. “Josiah…I…”

“You don’t have to say a word!” Trelawny exclaimed. “Not a word!”

Arthur nodded and held the rose awkwardly in his hand. He’d picked many flowers, but being on the receiving end was bizarre.

“Oh my!” Trelawny glanced at his pocket watch and then at Arthur. He frowned and shook his head.

“You late for somethin'?” Arthur settled himself down in the chair he previously occupied and set the flower across his lap and watched Trelawny.

“I am,” Trelawny confirmed flatly. "You'll have to excuse me."

Arthur mirrored Trelawny's frown. “What is it?”

“Oh, nothing for you to worry your handsome head about.” He smiled and stood before the other. “As much as I’d prefer to stay here with you, dear Arthur, and continue this,” he gestured between the two of them, “I do have rather important and possibly lucrative business to see to.”

“That right?”

“Indeed, but while I'm absent...I’ll be thinking of you,” Trelawny whispered as he leaned down and captured Arthur's lips in chaste kiss. “…the entire time, boy—_my_ boy.” He dragged the rose gently across Arthur cheek and down his neck. Arthur shivered at the strange sensation.

“How long?” Arthur croaked.

“Few days…” Trelawny moved behind Arthur and massaged at the taut muscles of his neck and shoulders. “A week…at the very worst…”

“A week?” Arthur closed his eyes. Trelawny's touch was magic. He felt himself relaxing all over as if a great vice had just released his body.

“Yes, yes, but I promise to return to you as soon as I am able!”

“Good,” Arthur mumbled as he tried his hardest to stifle the pathetic sound building in his throat.

Trelawny pecked him on the cheek and made his move to depart.

Arthur smiled and stared after him.

“I look forward to our next…reunion!” Trelawny had called over his shoulder. "I'll miss you, dear boy!"

"Bye, Josiah." It took Arthur several minutes to recover. "Be safe..."

* * *

Trying so desperately to busy his troubled brain, Arthur spent his time alone doing chores, splitting firewood, and tidying around the small house. Before long though, he ran out of things to do. He set to making any small repairs he could think of.

On more than one occasion, he caught himself smirking at the memory of Trelawny and what they had shared. Even though he was alone, the heat still colored his cheeks.

Each time though, the memory of Dutch would creep into his heart...

And ruin the calm he had achieved.

However, the aching and longing persisted.

“Goddamn,” Arthur groaned to himself as he paced out onto the porch. He ran his hands through his medium length hair. He leaned on the railing and gazed at the surrounding greenery. “What am I gonna do now…”

* * *

He must have been daydreaming.

“Arthur!”

_ That voice._

“Arthur Morgan!”

But he wasn't.

Arthur choked on the air in his lungs.

“I know you’re there, son. Come here!”

After taking a moment to recover from the coughing fit, he obeyed like the obedient dog he was.

Slowly—cautiously, Arthur made his way over to where Dutch was standing in the grass with his arms crossed, a cigarette in his hand, staring off into the distance. His brow was furrowed.

Troubled.

Deep in thought.

Or both.

Immediately, Arthur recognized the peril he had done his best over the last few days to avoid. The tension in Dutch's body oozed into the surrounding air, which compounded Arthur’s internal strife.

A long time passed as Arthur stepped up next to Dutch so that they stood shoulder to shoulder just a foot apart and fixated his attention on a marred tree in the distance. He rested his trembling hands on his gun belt and hoped to God that Dutch wouldn’t notice.

“How did you expect me to react, Arthur?” His voice was unkind—accusing—straight to the point.

The younger outlaw downcast his eyes. How dare he burden Dutch with his love—his shame—his sin. It weren’t right, nor was it fair of him. Dutch had enough turmoil without Arthur adding his foolishness to the mix.

“I ain’t sure…” Arthur kicked at the ground and stole a glance at Dutch, who paused and took a long drag from his cigarette.

“I rationalized it as you pulling my leg—had to be,” Dutch said flatly. "Had to be..." He took another long drag.

After some time Dutch exhaled and watched Arthur with a perplexing expression on his face. When he spoke, he sounded indignant. “It didn’t make sense, son, but then it did. It all made too much goddamn sense.” He flicked the cigarette away.

Arthur shook his head and stared up at the now darkening sky and its melancholy clouds—threatening to spill forth on the landscape at any given second.

Fiercely and instantly, Arthur wished to either drown in a great flood or be cast out by a lightning strike. Surely either of those two things would be better than—

“How long?” Dutch's question grounded him back to the shame he wished away with death. His words were pointed--almost demanding. “How long?” He repeated.

“How long what, Dutch?” Arthur's own voice was barely audible as the wind picked up, rustling the greenery around them. It smelled like rain.

“How long you…” The older man hesitated. His tone was softer, but his expression was just as serious. “…felt that way—felt that way about...me?”

“Long time,” Arthur replied. “Years.”

Dutch sighed heavily, turned toward Arthur, and raked a hand through his own curly black hair. “That so?”

“Yeah.” Arthur stole a glance at him.

Bad idea.

The uncertainty in Dutch's eyes frightened Arthur. It lingered there for only a moment before turning into something more intense. Arthur felt as though maybe Dutch was sizing him up like a great mountain cat might before it went in for the kill; pouncing on its unsuspecting prey---claws sinking into flesh and muscle—teeth ripping its throat out—its life blood spilling onto the ground—

But it was the touch of Dutch's hand, heavy, and ablaze at his cheek that interrupted his outlandish thoughts. Instantly, Arthur closed his eyes at the touch. He couldn’t help the way he pressed into the man's palm or the sigh that left his lips.

“Dutch…”

Dutch allowed his hand to linger just a moment longer before taking the warmth away. Arthur so badly wanted to chase it, but he didn’t want to ruin this—ruin Dutch—ruin himself. His damaged heart couldn’t bare it.

“Oh, Arthur...”

_ Oh, Dutch..._

“I need time, son.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please tell me what you think! It fuels me! 
> 
> Also, I'm open to requests/suggestions. I'll consider ALMOST anything.


	14. Poppycock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It picks up right were we left off with Dutch and Arthur. A lot of shit happens. Oh! Finally, there is some sexy time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the hiatus. Before I got sick, I was working nearly seventy hours a week. I'm back and I'll do my best to post an update on a somewhat normal basis. Thank you for your patience!
> 
> Also, I didn't proofread this one as good as I normaly do.

_ I need time, son._

Time.

How many times had Arthur heard that over the years?

_More_ time.

_More_ money.

Loyalty.

Faith.

One more score.

More, more, more.

Nothing ever seemed to sate Dutch's thirst.

_I ain't got time._

He wanted to say it.

He wanted to scream it until he was blue in the face.

He wanted to make _him_ understand—make him recognize it—acknowledge it.

He wanted to.

He really did.

But, the agony of losing the shard of happiness he thought he found between them at long last consumed him. He wanted to preserve that miniscule thing—that hope, shelter it, grow it. But, he feared Dutch would stomp it out as soon as it sprouted its' infant head above the ground.

"I—I haven't thought of—I don't..." The brown eyed man started but let his voice trail off as he stepped away from Arthur again and stared off in the distance. Once more, his face was masked in granite. He lit another cigarette.

"Dutch," Arthur encouraged as he stepped up next to the other. The wind continued to whip at their clothing. The darkened clouds threatened in the distance. Arthur shivered.

"I ain't figured our next move out just yet." Dutch took a long drag. His dark hair billowed behind him. "Pinkertons probably caught a whiff of us by now. We'll be gone from here in a week. Maybe sooner..."

Oh, so it was all business once more.

"You'll think of somethin'." Arthur cleared his throat. "You always do."

"Thanks, son."

"'Course, Dutch."

"Looks like rain." Dutch flicked his cigarette away and regarded Arthur with a different expression.

"A storm," Arthur agreed as he watched the dark clouds brewing in the distance.

Dutch closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. Arthur watched in fascination at the way his nostrils flared and his chest expanded. He still found himself being wrapped up in the way the man just simply existed.

"Smells like it, too." Dutch grinned.

"Sure," Arthur drawled as he crossed his arms in an attempt for warmth. Dutch's sudden shift in mood threw Arthur off. The man was complex he knew, but now he was reminded of the madness that sat just below the surface. "You sure yer' all right?"

"Right as rain." Dutch chuckled at his own pun. "Right as rain, my boy!"

Then, it was Arthur's turn to laugh at the lighthearted exchange between them, but it distressed his sick lungs. He tried to clear his throat, but it was in vain. The effort behind the horrible sound that emanated from his chest nearly forced him to his knees.

"Arthur!"

Against his will, his eyes closed. The horrid rattling sound soon turned to pain. He couldn't breathe. Arthur's knees buckled. He braced himself for the fall, but it never came.

Sturdy arms encircled his body and pulled him in close. He couldn't fight—could not protest. He panicked. Try as he may, he still could not breathe.

_Fear._

His mind went blank. His body was no longer his.

_Breathe._

But in same moment, his mind was racing. Sound eluded him.

_ Breathe._

His lungs were on fire—felt as though they had been rubbed raw by sandpaper.

_Breathe!_

When the pain was at its' worst and Arthur surely thought he would die, a hard blow to his back afforded him to gasp and breathe greedily, but he choked almost instantly.

The new pain was intense—excruciating. He clutched his torso and fell to his side. Gasping, he wretched.

"Arthur."

Exhaustion; he could not move.

"I've got you, big boy..."

* * *

Some hours later, Arthur startled awake. He recognized his usual bedroom in the small dwelling the Englishman had secured for them. The smell and burn of stomach acid in his sinuses nauseated him. His chest felt like it was on fire and he was thirsty.

So goddamn thirsty.

"Josiah," Arthur rasped as loud as he could.

Familiar and heavy boots sounded in the hall.

"Arthur."

"Dutch," he greeted. He was unable to focus, but Arthur recognized the posture of the man he had known for twenty some years. Van der Linde's presence in the room brought a foreboding feeling that Arthur could not clarify.

"It's just you and me, _son_." Dutch's words seemed far away. His pitch was unusual. "I ain't figured it out yet, Arthur, I ain't, but I'm going to think of something—something that will get you…right, again. Get us some money—get you away from here. Somewhere warm and dry where—where they got doctors that seen this kind oof thing. Son, I just need...time...and..." Dutch laid a heavy hand on Arthur's forehead and let his words fade.

"That's a real nice thought." Arthur cleared his throat as his vision remained beyond blurry. He had not the energy for this—for Dutch and his rambling words and vacant promises. "Real nice..."

Before Dutch could respond, Arthur closed his heavy eyelids and succumbed to the Consumption, again.

* * *

Unbeknownst to Arthur, Dutch van der Linde stayed by him as he battled the Tuberculosis.

Throughout the first and second night, the older outlaw read aloud. Arthur hadn't heard him though.

Whenever Arthur's breathing worsened, Dutch leaned in and listened with an ear and hand to Arthur's chest; the rise, fall, and rattle...

The pathetic attempts to breathe...

The smell of copper in the air and the dribble of crimson at the corner of Arthur's mouth...

He wiped it away.

Held his boy's hand.

Feared the worst for a second time.

Similarly to when he picked up Arthur's lifeless body sprawled on the cliff face...

After Micah had...

After he had failed to...

_Dutch!_

Terror had gripped him as he held Arthur's unresponsive body in his arms that night.

It wasn't supposed to be like that—like this…

Arthur.

_All them years, Dutch._

His son.

_All them goddamn years._

His boy.

If for some reason he lost Arthur now, Dutch was convinced that he'd forever lose the sliver of sanity he had left.

_ I gave you all I had. I did._

And that just wouldn't do.

* * *

At long last, consciousness returned to Arthur, but he had not woken on his own accord. There were harsh voices and racket near, but he could not make any sense of it through the walls.

Fatigue kept him still.

Everything felt heavy.

Everything hurt.

The petite bedroom was nearly dark where Arthur lay. Each breath hurt a bit more than the last.

The heated tones in the other room continued.

Arthur sighed to himself. Even that hurt. He turned his head to the side and eyed a glass of water on the nightstand. His movement to grasp the glass of water was jerky and miscalculated. It shattered on the wooden floor.

Immediately, the commotion in the other room ceased.

Irregular footsteps followed.

"Arthur, are you all right?"

"Josiah," he breathed as he recognized the profile in the doorway. His eyes refused to focus, again.

Just as Trelawny moved to approach, Dutch appeared dragging a bumbling man after him. He moved past Trelawny and pushed the unknown person toward Arthur, who tried to speak, which resulted in a violent coughing fit.

"Help him!" Dutch all but growled as Arthur continued to cough and gasp.

_Breathe_.

"M-mister, I-I can't! I already told you! The Tuberculosis has its' hold on him. Please!"

_Breathe_.

"Do something, _now_!"

_Breathe._

"Please, mister! I’ve tried for days. He's beyond treatment. Nothing can be done!"

Arthur closed his eyes as he continued to struggle. His ears caught the distinctive click of a gun being cocked.

"...help him or I _will_ kill you!"

_Dutch's voice._

Different.

Angry.

Desperate.

He felt hands on him, pressure on his chest. A needle pricked his arm.

"Please—I already told you, mister. Besides making him comfortable, there ain't nothing I can do for him!"

_Breathe._

"I'm getting real tired, doctor," Dutch roared. "Real goddamn tired of your failure as a physician!"

_Breathe._

"Ain't nothing I can do, mister! He ain't got long besides. Please, don't!"

“Don’t you—don't you goddamn say that!”

"Dutch, the man has done his best. Surely, there is—"

Before Trelawny could finish his sentence a loud crack echoed throughout the cottage.

The air smelled of iron and sulfur. Arthur's ears rang.

After a scatter of warmth hit his face and torso, Arthur realized he was only wearing trousers. Instantly, he was nauseated and terrified, but he finally was able to gasp a breath into his aching lungs. His chest heaved with each pained inhale and exhale. He could not move. An intense drowsiness overwhelmed him, which he attributed to the prick in his arm. He strained his ears to hear what was going on around him. His heart filled with dread at the silence.

* * *

Roughly, a week's time had passed. Drifting in and out of a painful consciousness, Arthur had rested as much as he was able. Trelawny informed Arthur that Dutch had disappeared after he murdered the medical doctor, which added to Arthur's inner turmoil and worry. It seemed that he and Dutch were finally getting somewhere and...

Trelawny had packed up their few remaining belongings and moved Arthur on his own. The short journey had exhausted all of Arthur's remaining vigor. He'd nearly fell off of a _borrowed_ nag once. That had been one time too many according to Trelawny.

"Can't have you hitting that handsome head of yours, Arthur," he had rationalized in that muddled English accent. Arthur had not even protested as Trelawny had helped him onto his horse with a gentleman's grace.

Once Arthur was settled, the magician tied the other horse to his own. Once satisfied with the arrangements, Trelawny seated himself in front of the younger man.

"Do hold on now," Trelawny had instructed as he glanced over his shoulder at Arthur, who blushed so slight. "Don't be shy, dear boy!"

"Whatever you say," Arthur had grumbled as he wrapped an arm around the other's waist.

"Very good," Trelawny praised as he set the horse in motion. "I'm afraid it's not the most accommodating place we're headed to, but it shall do for the time being."

"Sure," Arthur grunted. "Yer talkin' to a feller that has slept in the dirt." He felt a coughing fit coming on and cleared his throat. Trelawny's grip on his arm tightened, almost painfully so. He ended up leaning into and coughing all over Trelawny's suit jacket.

For the remainder of the ride, Arthur wrapped both of his arms snuggly around Trelawny's waist and pressed the side of his face into the man's back. Try as he might, he could not quit thinking about Dutch.

It troubled him greatly.

* * *

They had not gone too terribly far from the small house the odd trio had stayed in for just over two weeks, but far enough to buy some more time until the inevitable pursuit by the Pinkertons would...

"Arthur?"

"Here," Arthur rasped from the rickety chair he sat in. He watched as Trelawny entered into the one room shack, hanging his jacket and hat on a rack with an impressive elegance.

The mustached man had been absent for more than a day and a half. However, his appearance was faultless as always. Relief seemed to settle in on his face as he regarded Arthur.

"Did you..." Arthur coughed. "Find 'em?"

"Oh, my boy, it wasn't the easiest task, but of course I did and just before the sun set!" Trelawny exclaimed as he set the saddle bags on the table near Arthur and lit a lantern. "I encourage you to go through these while I put on a pot of tea."

"Sure." Arthur grabbed the saddle bags and began rummaging through them while Trelawny rolled up his sleeves and busied himself with the woodstove.

"See any law? Pinkertons?" Arthur broke the silence. He caught the stutter in Trelawny's movements at his question.

"Not quite, but I did hear rumors of them being closer than we had hoped," Trelawny answered. "What's done is done, but I can't help but think that we would have been better off had Dutch and you had not robbed—"

"I _goddamn_ know," Arthur snapped.

Trelawny shook his head and continued on with his tea making task.

As soon as the words had left his mouth, Arthur regretted them. Trelawny did not have that kind of behavior coming from him. The man had only ever been supportive and kind. Arthur shook his own head and continued running his hands through the saddle bags. His heart fluttered when he found the bottle of pills. He let the saddle bags fall to the floor with a loud thud and held the bottle against his chest.

A moment later, Josiah was at his side with a tin cup full of tea. "Here you are," he offered.

"I'm sorry, Josiah," Arthur mumbled as he accepted the drink and downcast his eyes.

"It's quite all right, lad," Trelawny said softly as he stood opposite of Arthur. He leaned against the wall as he sipped his tea. Everything the man did seemed elegant to Arthur. "You've had a rough go of it. Do drink up, hm?"

Arthur nodded. The tea was some kind of mint as it always was. He swallowed two pills.

"You'd be happy to know that I _reacquired_ that stolen horse of yours as well!" Trelawny smiled.

"You ain't shittin' me?" Arthur's eyes lit up at the thought.

"Certainly, I am not," Trelawny confirmed with a smirk. "Discovered him at a stable nearby." He sipped his tea. "As fate would have it, my dear Gwydion was there as well!"

Arthur mirrored the other man's smirk. "Josiah, I—thank you."

"Think nothing of it." Trelawny collected Arthur's empty cup and busied himself with cleaning up. "You're certain that this medication will lessen your symptoms significantly?"

"'Course," Arthur replied. "You saw how I was."

"Right you are," Trelawny agreed. "How many do you have left then?"

"'Bout a month supply I figure."

Trelawny was silent. His brow furrowed and his lips were a tight line.

"What?"

"Forgive me, Arthur, but that hotel room in Thieves Landing that we all shared... I saw the pamphlet of yours regarding the sanatorium to the north. And..." Trelawny's tone made Arthur's heart ache. "And..."

"And?" Arthur echoed. He braced for what might fallow.

"If you'd agree, dear boy, I'd like to take you there." Trelawny turned to face him. When Arthur opened his mouth to protest, Trelawny held up his hands. "It would be no such burden, Mister Morgan. I want to do this of my own election, I assure you."

"Why?" Arthur did not like the seriousness in the other's tone or the way he frowned after Arthur questioned him.

"Oh, Arthur..." Trelawny sighed and raked a hand over his face. "I wish you would believe that... I'd hope you would understand by now that... I don't have any ill intent—oh, poppycock!"

Arthur was taken aback. "Josiah?"

Trelawny said nothing, but shook his head as he paced the room. After a few strides, his green eyes lit up. Quickly, he made his way to the younger outlaw and bent down so he could meet his gaze.

"Now, listen here, boy, and listen well." Trelawny reached up and held Arthur's bearded chin so he was forced to look him straight in the eye. His tone was serious. Arthur's cheeks burned red. "The last thing I wish to do is to cause you any unnecessary duress. However, I want you to know and understand that I, Josiah Trelawny, care for you to a great extent, Arthur Morgan. A degree that I was ill-equipped for to say the least. Moreover, I meant what I said about—"

Arthur surprised them both when he leaned in and silenced Trelawny's profession with a chaste kiss. It was warm and pleasant, but short lived. Arthur smirked at the magician's perplexed expression.

"You was sayin'?" Arthur teased as warmth spread throughout his chest. 

"I...ah, Arthur...you fluster me so..." 

The shadows of Trelawny's face were so close to his own that Arthur could smell the mint on his breath, and then Trelawny's tongue was in Arthur's mouth. His hands were in his hair. The magician was urgent with his mission as he worked over Arthur's mouth and tongue. The fervor in the kiss alone overwhelmed Arthur to the point that his body trembled.

By some means, Arthur ended up with the back of his knees hitting the only mattress in the room. Their tongues continued in a rapid tango as Arthur gave in and fell backward onto the aged mattress, pulling Trelawny with him.

Eyes scrunched shut, lips and tongue moving hurriedly, hands grasping wildly at Trelawny's chest—his mental state deteriorated just as fast as Trelawny melted into him with necessity. Equally so, Arthur's own need grew and throbbed below.

To Arthur's great annoyance, his damaged lungs demanded relief. So, he pushed the other man's chest away, turned his head, and coughed hard.

"Are you all right?" Trelawny's blazing emerald eyes fizzled to concern and worry.

"'M fine." Arthur coughed again and cleared his throat.

"I'm sorry, Arthur. I shouldn't have been so impulsive." Trelawny moved so he was no longer looming over the other. Instead, he sat on the bed and cradled Arthur's head in his lap. "I know you're not well... Forgive me, dear boy, that was most selfish and—"

"Said 'm fine, Josie. Just give me a goddamn minute," Arthur grunted. “After all, I started it.”

"Josie, hm?" Trelawny toyed with Arthur's hair.

"Yeah, Josie." Arthur closed his eyes as Trelawny's long fingers soothed his scalp. "You don't like it?"

"Oh, I do like it. Very much so, my boy," Trelawny purred. "Say it for me, again."

"Josie," Arthur repeated.

Trelawny hummed as he continued to run his hands through Arthur hair.

Arthur did not know the tune, but that didn't matter.

What did matter was those hands in his hair, those lips that had been on his, and the goddamn man they belonged to.

In all of his years, Arthur couldn't recall a time he felt more content than he did now.

It hadn't been a perfect moment, but it was real.

Really real.

And that was the best part.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always love to know what y'all think. Criticisms of all kinds are welcome here! Thanks for reading.
> 
> <3 
> 
> Danny


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